Remembering You


Do you remember me? I’m the girl you swore you’d be friends with till your teeth fall out. When we were little we used to play with twigs and pretend we were taming huge fires. We played with dolls that wore prettier dresses than we did and sang along to every song on the radio our mothers asked as not to listen to.
On your birthday, your father got you a dress so pretty it almost made you cry. And even though he left your mother for a younger woman, you’ve never stopped loving him.
When you were 16 you fell in love with a boy two classes ahead of you so hard, that you skipped all your art classes just to be with him.
And when he left you, you were almost suicidal.
We left school with big hopes; I was going to be do something with my brains and you were going to change the world with your hands.
It’s been 8 years since I last saw you; we’ve grown apart but nothing has changed. Facebook pictures don’t do justice to the pretty woman you’ve grown up to be, and saying “it’s just a change of environment” three times out loud is enough to make me believe my own lie – that you’re not falling apart.
You’re getting married to a man you met seven months ago in two weeks, you swear you love him and you look almost happy so I pretend to believe you.
Late at night I think about you and wonder if you still have those big dreams you used to talk about.
I wonder if you remember me.
I wonder if you remember you.


Getting God back on Public Transport


Dear Uncle Sam,
I met God last Thursday.
She sat in the front seat of the yellow bus heading south in a borrowed blouse;
Smelling faintly of stolen perfume and renewed hope.
God sat beside me on a hot afternoon, in a little too tight grey suit,
Soaking the Monday blues off his sweaty forehead with a dirty green towel.
I saw God shift uncomfortably in her seat, punching furiously at her phone
as the man behind haggled her for a number to call.

Sometimes, God would jump into the bus through the back window,
Brush dirt off his sleeve and smoothen the crease down his pants with a smile.
Pleased at himself for avoiding having to pay two and a half times the price of the bus for the taxi that was rusted anyway
And sometimes, I would see God tucking old notes in a crumpled handkerchief under her left breast; smelling like fresh fish and happiness.
God sat two seats away from me today in a well pressed uniform,
And refused to pay a 20 pesewa increase on the bus fare.
The day before he put his head out the back seat window as the bus sped away, but not before I saw a lone tear travel down his cheek.

Today, God didn’t take public transport.
He was too broke
He called in to work sick because pay day is two days away
And his last note can only go a day.
Dear Uncle Sam,
Bring God back.

Hungry god


His eyes look like they can be scooped out of their sockets and replaced at will; aqueous humour so stabilized it’s almost surreal, – like a painting too well done. I’m tempted to touch them, just to be sure he’s real, but I know better.
His jet black hair has gathered in uneven knots, as if it were goat turd. But if goat turd looked this good even I would gobble them up. His lips are formed as though he slid the lower half of love in his mouth. He must be saving some love for his generation.
And look! Look at that eye brow! Is that not perfection? Is he not perfection?
Look at God looking up to give you further proof of his existence. How can you still not believe?

But God is hungry. He drank a cup of home made porridge this morning, it’s two hours past noon and that stick of meat you’re holding looks really good.
He stretches out his tiny hands and demands, “give me”

Why do you still stare?