Mother of the Gypsies
Cyrine Sinti
I was three years old when my Grandma first took me on the silent , unlit pilgrimage . We
went with the body of Mama . The cold , shredded body of the woman who would ruffle my hair
and smile at me .
We had returned without her , having le her for God .
*
As soon as midnight washed over our shacks on the sides of the civilised roads on my
thirteenth birthday , it began . For the first few seconds I thought I was hearing the remnants of a
radio from a passing car . It was only when my scalp tingled as my hair fluttered up and back
down around my face , that I called for my Grandma .
“ Nani ! Naaaaanii !” I tried to shout-whisper . I wasn ’ t scared of waking the neighbours up ,
I was scared of waking him . Since Mama was hacked to death by blood-lusting men who
thought being born Gypsy was a crime , Papa had developed a melancholy that couldn ’ t be
shaken . I looked just like Mama , everyone would tell me , in daylight Papa pretended not to
notice . But the Moon knew how Papa noticed .
I found Nani with her best friend from a few shacks down , playing cards and drinking
liquor . I jumped onto Nani ’ s lap .