When I was a girl in Angola,
The world was won with badminton

That’s what I learned from Dad
As I skidded back and forth
Blistering bare feet
On that concrete slab called driveway

‘She returns, he dives, the crowd roars’
Commentary erupts with each swing
As that Equator sky turns orange pink,
Dusk sweeps across the horizon
Mosquitos and fruit bats watch attentively.

Soon, we would be called in for cold bucket
Showers and salted popcorn tea
Traffic, parasites, and pending visas forgotten
With Hawkeye’s banter on the screen.

Soon, I would go to bed, sweat myself to sleep
Under that still ceiling fan, beating my feet
In time with the gunshots
Ringing against that barbed wire wall. Hearing

‘Swing that bird high, forget the net, let it fly, look at her go!’
My racket soaring purple across the grey dust,
Mango tree pollen raining down on my victories

That bird was free.

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Iona is a British-American writer. Raised in Scotland, Portugal, Angola, and the Middle East, Iona currently lives in Cambridge, UK with her husband and daughter. She writes about her experience as a repatriating adult in her blog authentic unrest.