Mama Yangu

I don’t even remember your voice.

I don’t remember how it would crack when you’d raise it, telling you that you’ve shouted enough in your life.

I don’t remember your soft brown eyes that you’ve given me.

The same eyes that you kept wide open at night waiting for your sons to come home.

I don’t remember how your hijab feels. The purple one I would wrap my stumpy baby arms around when you picked me up at dawn.

I don’t remember the smell of your perfume. The smell of sweet mango, like the ones we’d grow at the old house.

I don’t remember your hands. Wrinkles that looked like paths on a muddy field to lead me home.

I’m sorry I didn’t call to say goodbye, I didn’t want to say it, Kaka Blaise said you didn’t have long.

I also didn’t want to admit that I’d forgotten your number.