Homesick

I miss the sensation of waiting for miyan kuka,
the sound of my name when the food is served.
Days of absolute bliss in waiting for Daddy to come home,
the cuffs tied to my hands when I was stubborn,
my commitment to mischief.
I miss nights with a prayer on our lips for light to come
for us to see the superstory.
I envy children for being children
and the conscience ignored cause they’re children.
The amount of superstitions behind a mirror at 12.a.m,
those of the white bird following the rainbow.
I miss Anglo-Jos; that was home
Not a single time to cry
There was always an uncle waiting to save me
from my mother’s curse.

Ruddapoet