A dead wolf’s eulogy,
is best said by the clawing scars it leaves on the face of the hunter,
and not by city dogs who mimic it’s canine affinity
to scavenge from lonely bins.
eyes never lie
or the smile that dances to light up selective mirth
the warmth she extended to the light skinned infant
as she picked him up from the crib
soft pampers, baby oiled, powdered
sweet scents of innocence fused with luxury about him
‘you aunty e pikin posh o, aww he’s so cute’ she says
then tickles the soft cheeks of the child and it gurgles with giggles
a few chit chat about daily life
Mazeltov for the new baby
we take our leave
as we walk to the car a few feet away
an orange peddler with her tray accosts us with her voice
‘r get the sweet orinch o aunti and uncle, na just 3 for 2 thousand , na fresh pick dem so’
with a weakness for the juice of citrus and respect for her hustle
I call out, ‘bring 8 for me and me uman’
hastily she selects the best
sends her young kid over
as the kid brokes into a run to catch up to our fast strides on her tiny legs
she skids and bumps into my lady friend
I don’t have the answers
Lord knows I was torn on which I could stop first,
her condescending words or the angry descent of slaps she gave to that young child
‘na u dorti body u don take jam me white clothes, (slaps), u nr know say me top day buy u mama e tray(slaps) ‘
stepping in to rescue a poor child is never early
abuses are daily
we always come when its too late
yet still she picks up the rolling oranges from the kiss of earth it came from
and hands them to me
sad tears streaming down her fine features
‘uncle r bring water make r was dem’
my thought wanders
(she could be my niece if societal roles or status were switched
or if she was in clean cut apparels at the back seat of a SUV or residing in a rich house
I’m sure my lady friend would have perceived her differently)
I tell her its ok
‘ r go go wash dem way r go na ose’
I take a glance back at her mama seated
eyes down peeling more fruits to survive
pretending she never saw what just transpired
I hand the child the money plus extra few notes in my guilt trip
or saying ‘
keep the change’ do little to help
maybe the child not from affluence or born in luxury
Is never cute enough
I don’t have all the answers
but sometimes I wish I did.
I wish I did more.
She was a swift one, graceful like a cheetah in custom high heels
you couldn’t take your eyes off her,
in her gaze men found demise in their lust to own her as a trophy
yet they were left petrified permanently piqued
medusa tinged brazilian hair flowing way below her nape accentuated her shapely hillcut road curves
over the edge with a smile she drove men
but they crawled back pleading with gifted apples of a different sort than the one Eve knew..
you see, Andromina was a bad bitch.
love poems or deep lyrics had no sway with her
neither did gene passed fine features
she wasn’t that sentimental
sexiness was the sound of that green paper, handsome was the revving of that shiny new G Wagon and funny but smart she found that slick crib with the swimming pool.
this was her religion.
.. damned she was to the temporary bliss it brought her and blind to the world
she deafened her ears to the whisperings, blotted out the prejudiced looks and numbed her heart to the memories she deleted
.. she convinced herself daily she was a good one and only the Most High could judge her.
… and not anyone.
In that hope she laid her bet.
she hoped to wear white some day and walk down the aisle to be ringed by some mystery gent who either forgave her past or knew nothing about it…
for this she made crusades her second home and absolvitory social media religious posts a daily dose…
her faith in miracles was unchallenged
… sadly it wasn’t to be
for in her prime, her dreams were cut short
not by the viral infections of her night escapades or some moral backlash for her sins
but by a drunk taxi driver who after a rowdy evening of fermented cocktail of kosovo and stanky kush slept on the wheel and ran her down to her permanent slumber
… and the world did not stop.
It was just another dead human.