Amari of the Nomads – Prologue

We are nomads. We go where others dare not to go. We see things city dwellers would pay to see. We go out to where the elements are the harshest. And we survive together.

I was taught from a young age from my Madji (my mother’s mother) that we can go to the Dust and return, but you can not go to the Dust and return. She meant that we can go out there together and survive but if one of us were to go out there alone, we would not survive.

Together we are a number of around thirty. Madji, my family, my father’s brother’s family, my father’s sister’s family and her husband’s brother’s family. I am the only girl in my family. With five brothers I am the third child. I am my mother’s joy, for I am her daughter and daughter’s are precious to mother’s, father’s and men. And I am worth a lot of trade.

My family does not want me taken and sold, that is why I do not wear dresses like the city dweller girls. It is why I braid my waist length, coal coloured hair under my hood.

We are nomads, but we are more peaceful than most. That is why I am hidden within our clan. For other nomads believe that what they take, they own, and in a land where girls are few, it is dangerous very dangerous.

My father’s brother has twin girls they are but in their fourth year. They cling to their mother’s dress as she goes about her work on the camp. But they, besides me are the only daughters in our nomad clan.

Together we are precious.

This was a sort of prologue to a short story I have decided to write, The story is titled ‘Amari of the Nomads’. please comment below to tell me what you think…

– Tamsyn

Ever – a short, short, very short story.

A smattering of blue sky against the clouds.

Crisp autumn breeze and the click-clack of shoes against the cobblestone.

They are not joyous things in my mind. They are quiet, withdrawn.

There was once a personality that walked these halls, far more ecstatic than all the children in the square.

But she’s gone now.

And she can’t come back.


Never again will I see her face.

She won’t hum joyous tunes in the kitchen when the oven is hot and flushes all our faces.

She won’t be scrubbing and dusting in all the crevices the rest of us can’t reach.

She won’t be there at all


– Tamsyn