The fruiting of my womanhood was like the ripening of waves;
Coming softly and then gathering momentum,
For crashing into the shore of your full-fledged desires.
And like Harmattan in December leeching into rain
There were things I gave to it without knowing
They crept out of me like ghosts, to new haunts.
Like when I stopped peppering my stew,
And flavoured my lips with new slangs
To soothe your sophomoric palate and when
I stopped knotting my grandmother’s wrappers
Sweetly around my womanly curves and then,
There were things I took without knowing.
Like the subtle perfuming-off of the musky scent
Of melanated truth from my body and carving
Scars upon scars on my flesh, wounds
That no longer throb with fresh hurt,
Ever present reminders of how much
I gave of myself to your soap opera mintage.