I have met women. Women who have believed in my imagination of love and have fallen trap to my dreams about them. These women don’t forgive easily because the boy they raise is known to raise his voice like you, when he can’t get what he wants from women.
I have touched women’s bossoms and felt at peace. Women like my mother. Women who believe in wedding rings and eggs for breakfast; that a man is a weak side of God, and should be smothered with undeserved praise.
Like Mbella Dipoko, I have found God in women’s thighs. When we met, I was just a boy trapped in my mother’s warning about girls, and her father’s warning on what boys do if she let them write poems on her skin. She let me be her poet for the night, and a lifetime.
I have met women who live by the river but still wash their faces with spittle because her children must drink and thirst nomore.
I have met girls trying become women and women trying to become fathers because fathers have become wet feathers in the wings of these women.
I have met women that recite love’s death in their vaginas. Stories of fathers, strangers, cousins and razor blades that stole joy from their innocence. These women died a long time ago and resurrected in Tupac’s songs.
I have met women who believe children are the future. Children: love them now or meet them in ghetto corridors with a starving face and two knives: one on the throat of women, the other inside the legs of screaming women.
I have met a woman armed with a hand full of minerals and a starving tummy. Sounds like Africa to me.
I have met frail women. Women who choke on tears as they lower a son to a 16 year-old grave. Returning the borrowed body back to Mother Nature’s womb. He was out selling sneakers when cops mothered him. Cops: frail women in uniforms, guns and moustaches.
I have met independent women. Women who paint the night purple. It takes more than a kiss in the neck, more than a wallet and panties sliding to the floor to touch their supple skins, to drink their essence and plant a seed in their belly.
I have met women in the dance floors of life. On their own rhythms. Consumed by their butterfly elegance, they don’t need men’s flowers to land on; for they’re petals unplucked, waiting to bloom.
Women who remind you of spaces and things. That people lose value the moment you love them. It’s like winning a medal and then the thrill is over.
Sadly, I have killed these women with my selfish intentions and a list of demands as a son, a father, a lover, a neighbour, a brother and friend.