Love in the third world | Poetry
The rhythm of love
Is the uneven beat of itchy horns in Lagos traffic
And the cacophonies birthed like thunderous claps
As tyres fall and rise in obedience to potholes
While you inform your woman you’re almost home
And cannot wait to drown in her waiting arms
“Muuuuah!”
The colour of love
Is the dim yellow that oozes from the light-bulb
Because NEPA loves her children equally and tries to feed them all from the little she has
It is the black vignette that swallows your charcoal face
As you describe to your lovebird what you had for dinner
During a WhatsApp video call
The taste of love
Is that of wannabe jollof rice starved of fish and meat
— and which forgets to blush
A common visitor in the shelters of life’s punching bag(s)
It is the sandy saltiness of sweat sticking to your girl’s boobs
As you suck gallons of imaginary milk from their rooftops
She had just returned from chasing other men on the streets with bottles of water balanced expertly on her head
But the little water at home mustn’t be wasted on a second shower
The odour of love
Is the stench of Small Stout that introduces your presence at 11 pm on Friday
As you finally stagger into your cubicle after mistakenly opening your neighbour’s in the face-me-I-face-you aparment
“I am sorry,” you tell your lover who couldn’t sleep and promise it would be the last time
But you know too well your problems are not about to end
And neither are the trips to the bar across the street
The shape of love
Is of a hardened palm with yawning fingers
As it leaps on the right cheek of the woman you call ‘wife’
Like a tired man who has missed his giant bed
— Or so you think. Both of you.
You love her just as a Mexican loves his bull
And simply cannot resist branding her likewise
With your hot, iron palms
In the Third World
The spelling of love is
E N D U R A N C E
