My eyes lit up
every time your name
appeared on my phone screen
like a child,
whose eyes shone wide in wonder
at the first taste
of ice cream.
I ran to the window
when I heard the sound
of your Volvo,
jumping
the same way I did
when Papa’s Mercedes wagon
pulled into the compound.
Fridays meant candy.
I laughed loud,
the kind of laugh
that made me afraid I’d fart,
the way I did
when Ebuka tickled me
just a little too much.
I thought about your touch a lot
how it balanced
my warm body,
like cold water
on sunburned skin.
But these days,
I sigh when I see your name.
Not the sweet sigh of longing
the weary kind,
like Mama’s
when I call her
one too many times.
The sound of your Volvo
ties my belly
into knots.
Your touch is cold as ice
like touching the hands
of the grim reaper.
I fake a laugh,
the same way
I faked one that day
when I saw you
under the mango tree,
your hands
wrapped around
Amina’s waist.
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