A Godé Person
Sita Kulatunga

I am a godé person.
I talk loud into the phone,
give long introductions to stories, as my father the
Ralahamy did,
unlike those young misses
who whisper
crisp, elliptical, elocuted phrases

into
casually handled mobiles,
I tell long stories with which
my offspring have no patience.

Bolabotuwe Ralahamy their grandfather
had patience not to hurry and rush the teller.

When Elisahamy ran away with youthful Jinadasa
and honeymooned in Walgam kele
where now a factory that spits chemicals rests,

it was to Ralahamy that Karolis-Elisa's old man-came
more to tell than to complain.

I the Podihamine the headman's youngest daughter
(whose frock patterns from Colombo were much admired and
diligently copied) hid, precocious, behind the hefty carved door
to eavesdrop,
to pick and savour the juicy bits which hopefully would reveal the
     grandest of all secrets,
where babies came from,
away from my mother's probing Victorian eyes that condemned bold
Elisahamy to the worst of all hells
where adultery was punished in none other than the thorny
Katuimbula.

(reprinted from Channels Vol. 9, #2)

godé - rustic
Katuimbula - a thorny tree in hell that those guilty of adultery are made to climb
kele - jungle