Note to somebody

Red sand on the pavement

Tracing the minutes-old tire tracks

Each thread of it ending by her flip-flops

The one she stood in, as she stared

At the red hot mist, swirling

On the edge of dawn’s strained clouds -

A mist coagulating into the morning sun.

It brought a memory of someone to her

A one buried under piles of old journals

And photo-albums filled with pictures

That had been smudged with nostalgic longing.

The someone had a face made of wanting,

Of nights spent conjuring impossible fates,

Like a bud of rose

sprouting in her fallow gardens of discontent.

The face stank of affection,

A mix of waste and engine oil and oil-paints

And cancelled returns across hate lines, painted

The Colour Love.



Her baby was cradled in her arms,

Lying across her chest

Like a breathing bruise mark, a growing scar

Of that remembered somebody.

And like all scars hurt when they throb in sharp weather

Her chest hurt;

The tears parting it’s way down her cheeks

Beat on the sand,

Hitting a pattern, a note to that somebody.

A breeze swept the plain, linen gown she wore

Close around her thighs,

Ghostly fingers of it caress her,

Legs, arms, face, hair –

A thought thrown through the wind

From a million miles across time,

Answering back, jot for touch.



The school buses honk,

To chase the goats along

The goats dash into the hens

A storm of feathers – resentful clucking

Bleating retorts, black droppings from their asses

Horned heads lower to graze the street dump

Birds flitting between trees and power lines, hooting


Oil sizzling in the frying bowl,

Around cut pieces of yam, bean cake, potatoes

At the wood stall, a shout away;

And the sun donning its golden garments

Claiming its sky seat- its sceptre of heat drawn

Readying, to rule the morning.

The first order of day, make a note to somebody

A million and six feet down.

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