My Heart Through My Stomach
You are the heat in my lungs brought on by the jollof
rice the sweet vanilla in the Nigerian custard You are
the thickest fried plantain in the freshly, fried batch The
okra soup that swoops and draws so elegantly
You are the softest puff
puff And the hottest akara
You are the fish in my moi
The tightness of my wrapper against my chest
You hold me up, you draw me in, you send me
Growling, at noon and punctual,
It utters ‘hello’.
You sigh. It leaps.
It plays with your mind, at
Hide and Seek,
(it lets you believe it’s just a peek).
And then it oozes,
right down to your neck,
twitching the nerves it’s about to wreck.
It rubs its hands,
filled with delight,
it’s planning, it’s drafting, it’s heaving its fright.
And soon enough,
but oh- too soon,
you drop like dead in spinning room.
Alright, you say, my fate is woe,
I won’t study today.
That’s all. End show.