I still try to convince the woman that raised my mother that distance is not synonymous with departure. Iya Agba with sequence of unflawed skin like fine soft sarcenet rubbed into melanin. She smells of clove balm and each morn she starts with a eulogy, my eyes behold her florescence. Her little round eyes are pearls amidst a body of white milk. Old but vibrant with fragments of ancient history. Her skin carries an assemblage of stars & you could count the silver lines behind her softened palm as she cradles my arms into her fragility. Iya Agba, beauty of the early sun. I hear her solemn voice as she lays the red oil in the earthen Ikoko with a familiar song of the countryside. Iya Agba, treasure that no man refuses. Her bangles crackle an angelic rhythm as she feeds my nasal cavity with the aroma of luscious Moi-Moi Eleede. Iya Agba, she tells me that no one else will ever love me, her petite shadow cast into pairs by the golden sun on Fayden street. I hear her loud tremble of worries as the Ikoyi train creeps into evening. Her heart melting, her gentle body pouncing into waving & I take my first step into an unnamed future, admitting that no one else will ever love me.

















Photo by Aditi Gautam on Unsplash