Red Ribbon

On the white wet branches of the wawa tree,  

still clutching the last brittle leaves of harmattan,  

two doves land. They say, “Go,” and still,

I want to make them into something they are not.  

Ananse’s messengers, whispers of ancestors, 

a sign from the other side of the veil. 

What news do they bring from the world beyond?  

It cannot be good. More hunger, more hands  

reaching for a future stolen before birth,  

more blades dulling against old scars, 

more salt in the wounds of those who kneel  

beneath the great trees, waiting for snow. 

And snow does come—a hesitant dusting,  

falling from whatever we believe lies beyond the sky.  

The doves seem enormous, as big as condors,  

but only because I watch them too closely,  

ask them to mean too much. They do not care  

for omens or prayers. 

A shake of a wing, and both are gone. 

No message given, no message asked of me,  

only their absence and my own silence, 

settling like the dry-season wind 

on the white wet branches of the wawa tree.

From the Desk of the Poet:

This piece was inspired by the wawa tree, also known as African Whitewood, a towering tropical hardwood native to West and Central Africa. In America we can easily name our own indigenous trees—oak, redwood, pine—but how seldom we know the names of trees that root other parts of the world. There’s a cultural narrowing in that forgetting, since trees—like people—stand as witnesses to history, weathering storms while carrying stories in their rings.

I’m often called to write longer, narrative poems that stretch out like stories, but with “The Wawa” I wanted to resist that instinct. I tried to keep this poem tight and concise, pared down to its essence, the way the tree itself is plain yet monumental. Each revision became an act of stripping away until only what was necessary remained.

In many ways, “The Wawa” reflects a larger tension in my writing—between narrative and observation, between telling the whole story and letting a single image stand on its own. This poem leans toward the latter, and maybe that’s why it feels like a turning point in my craft.

Rais Tuluka is a writer, public health strategist, and organizational leader based in Sacramento. With a Master’s degree in Organizational Leadership, he has led public health campaigns, managed large-scale communications initiatives, and worked with institutions like UC Davis Health and the California Department of Public Health. Beyond his professional work, Rais is an author currently developing his novel The Companion and exploring new writing projects.