The Word for Idiot Pemba Uses Once (Baka)

Lyrics

[Intro]
Late afternoon, 4:30, in the cluttered kitchen on our island outpost.
The sun slants through the smudged pane, golden and forgiving.
I'm peeling an apple, the paring knife steady in my hand.
The twins are there, Bouba and Kiki, watching with those wide eyes.

[Verse 1]
The kettle's dented side catches the light, steaming quietly.
Chipped teacups wait on the counter, mismatched as our days.
A worn broom leans against the wall, mid-sweep forgotten.
Plate of stale biscuits pushed aside, crumbs scattering like secrets.
The air's warm, stuffy, 24 degrees, with that sharp tang of apple juice.
Mixed with musty old wood and damp cloths, the scent of home.
I'm careful, always, with words, like this knife on the fruit's skin.
Curling the peel in a single spiral, unbroken, deliberate.

[Chorus]
But then it slips—the knife nicks my thumb, a tiny cut.
And out comes 'baka,' low and unintended, from the Han dynasty echo.
Fool, idiot, horse-deer confusion from 200 BC, carried across oceans.
To this kitchen, Edo period mildness, 1603 to 1868, now my lapse.
The twins freeze, then giggle, their eyes lighting up like fireflies.
Pemba slipped, just once, in the golden light of afternoon.

[Verse 2]
The apple's half-peeled, skin in a coil on the scarred wooden table.
Juice sticky on my fingers, the knife set down gently.
Bouba points, Kiki echoes, 'Baka! Pemba said baka!'
I smile, warm and dry, morally unsparing of my own folly.
In some Japanese villages, early 1900s, it was endearment.
Teasing affection among friends, a flip of the insult.
But here, it's my rare crack, the guardian's mask askew.
They won't forget, those two, holding it like a treasured stone.

[Bridge]
The draft through the window cools the room, sun dipping lower.
I wipe my hands on a dishcloth, the mustiness clinging.
No anger, just the quiet joke of it—Pemba, the steady one, stumbling.
Over a word from University of Tokyo surveys, 1923 dialect notes.
The twins chant it softly, turning my slip into their game.

[Outro]
Half-peeled apple on the table, spiral peel like a question.
The word hangs, baka, fool in the warm air.
Just once, but remembered, in this kitchen light.
They laugh, I join, the island holds us all.