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.

Jakky Bankong-Obi is writing from Abuja, Nigeria. Her poems have been featured in The London Grip, Voices of Eve, The Kalahari Review, Cephalo Press and others.   TWITTER