Maama used to lie in every story she
“Us” was bones so she needed flesh on
And flesh on us was what my aunty
called growing up-
When your manhood could differentiate
planting a seed from growing a crop.
Growing a crop meant little minds were
‘Put dead’, another couple my uncle
believed made you humble.
When at breakfast tea wouldn’t meet
Because nobody cared or dared to
So fire burns as a reflection of hell
And at dawn, the wetness of the dew
fresh like paradise
And if at Christmas no clothes came
home, the clothe seller had no more to sell
So excuses from Maama made us form a
compound-‘ex-use’; not needed, so no surprise(s).
Paapa always told the truth in every
story he told us
To him ‘Us’ were flesh and our ages
So whether we screamed or signaled in
Paapa was fluid so our gimmicks were
His wisdom made his scalp white to
And in all his chess stories the king
is always feared
But the day he decided to lie
The clothe-seller could sell but papa couldn’t buy.
So fire burns to cook that meat
And at dawn the wetness of the
morning dew makes you greet
And if at Christmas no new clothes
Paapa’s grays left with his comb.