SHALLY A.

My childhood memories are filled with stories of my mothers. We drove to Mummy Taiwos’s office, my mum’s Twin, from Corona School every weekday around 4:00 pm and waited for her to close from work. As my brother and I walked into her gigantic office building, ICON, we were welcomed with tender smiles. We took a lift to her office and her hallway was filled with colleagues who seemed excited to dote on us. They gave us sweets and asked us the same (always the same) questions about school. And I always had the same answers, ‘fine, ma/sir.’ Mum Tee, had a medium-sized office with a table and chairs we moved around so we could hide under her desk. My brother and I will play games and sometimes talked while we waited for her. We tried to not be too loud because mum seemed ‘serious.’ Sometimes, I would stand up to look into her eyes and smile. She made me proud. She was always stylishly dressed. Her blood-red lipstick contrasted with her extremely light-skinned face and her curly black

  Last night, I tried but I couldn’t sleep My mind danced, eyes twitched My belly rumbled, just as the doorbell rings I stand, sit and rise again Please Lord, no soldiers today It’s been a year of cold waiting Through lonely winter nights And pillows of tears Silent rhythms of body aging Aging from the lack of you here Do come home When the evil war passes over Its sweet ending brings us together Let the promise of forever stay stronger Sipping sweet scents into my life As I stand to open my home’s door Let it be no soldier of death I look through my door’s hole A glimpse of dread Sturdy fellow on the other side peeps back A braveness takes over I open with peace He opens his lips He bravely shatters my soul Today is the end He spills tales of death like it’s fame Another one of us has fallen today , he says Fallen or died? For justice or political ego? His death holds no gallant victory for m

am trying hard to imprint in my head with a permanent marker   the words responsibility, change, pain, love, diligence its tough I am not the child that her feet plays pitty-patty in the rain my face is lined with mature bones body curved with precision  and fearful perfection eyes deeper and more mysterious my smile has lost its careless abandon dreams far far away Alice in wonderland growing up is tough it’s just less delightful than childhood less protected and less free I want to be a child again   I wrote this poem in 2010... I still have those moments where all I want is to be a little girl again. ;)

Waiting for the rickety bus to deliver me to my destination, my delivery time was fast approaching. The walking dead bus forcefully stops; I climb in, walk close to the window and sit down. I stick my head out – I’m dreaming of a better life – a life flowing with the swiftness of dancing, the steadiness of peace, and simplicity of hope. I dream on. Absently, I turn my hilariously hanging head with hope, when she jumps in. She slowly slides and stiffens beside me, holding her son firmly on one leg and her gigantic bag on the other. I notice her hands.  These big hands are sorely black, lined with use, squeezed from the wear and tear of hours and hours of work; strengthened by the weight of carriage, paled from the life of wash and ware. I wonder, what’s her story? Did her husband treat her hands with care? They desperately needed his support. Her palms told me they had carried sons, daughters, chores and life itself. Her face, strangely, bore little evidence of