So we brought in gasoline, lit some cigars,
And sat down to watch the whole thing burn to the ground.
We spoke about mum.
About magic nights sharing a bottle of bubbly,
Whilst tipsy teenage feet danced away to 80's reggae music,
Talking about love, and true disciplines of a good man.
Mum used to say, beware of the soft spoken intelligent man.
She would murmur to father whilst eyeing me and stirring a steaming pot of concoction,
'Keep an eye on that one'.
Bless her, she was right - sometimes.
She used to tell me to be wary of strange affections,
The girls who stoke your desires and damn your devotion.
But instead we let our hearts run wild, savage.
Till they flowed into a hooker's reckless embrace.
She said, from the begining of the world
To the end of days,
Beautiful women will walk the face of the earth.
May they ever be to us -
Nothing more than a passing distraction.
We talked about this new brave world
Where the voices of imperfect men are silenced, me too.
And moral codes are exhalted, without re-education.
How did the leopard changed its spots,
Mum's favourite fòlklore.
The one about Fathers wandering aimlessly trying hide their secrets and find their feet -
With sincere yet uncharmed cluelessness.
Mum was no saint either - god forbid no.
There was no end to the contradictions in her convictions.
Like the psalms she read to us at bedtime,
Whilst her staunch African beliefs dogged her every decision like a talisma.
My therapist admitted that i am a product of dire dysfunction.
Yet thriving beyond every possible imagination.
I agreed - for me and many many others.
God bless the untiring hustle of the Nigerian child.
Last night we waited for the midnight train to Paris,
We watched the girls stroll by in bouncy summer skirts,
And the boys who stumbled over themselves trying to catch a glimpse of heaven.
But God was healing our minds....
