The last time I saw her she looked like the sun dropped a baby, skin glistening, virgin olive oil kind of drip you know what I’m saying.
So what happened Amope, I asked as I gasped, cos her skin has darkened, patches all over not like a stitch in time but like stitches all over time, I could see grief, written on every inch of her skin bare, the reverse of skincare, whoever did those obviously didn’t care…. wait wait wait, let me not get too fast here, Amope how did you get like this, what does your husband think of this?
She let off a smile accompanied by the shaking of the head that seemed more like a gnashing of teeth, she looked like she had been to a fistfight with her feet, a fistfight wherein she realized she was the feast, to be feasted upon and then her feet failed to take her away from where she shouldn’t have gone both feet in but at most test afoot.
She said, Nwoke, what do you do when the home is nothing to write home about, when the synonym of punching bag has become you, when when you scream silence comes around, you’ll say he’ll come around, but then when he does he comes bearing tidal waves of battering, a form of love that seemed to have the right amount of salt, sweet, now gone sour, assault is what is, when your good man has turned bad then worse, what could be worse than stitches unending for you not having made a stitch in time now you’re subject to a lifetime of being treated like a contraband within the confines of legal matrimony, holy matrimony (scoffs) but then you see scenes that can make the devil be like man you tripping, nobody can fit relate pe ile oko yi o ma le o.
Menene sunanka? Halimat, Aliyat, Kadijat, kaferawa kodija, Amaka, Osato, Iyekepolor by 30 looking like iyenokwa, this is for our daughters, sisters, mothers, a shoutout to the men that are still being men and those that aren’t mehn you need to change, to stand for our women always, to change am for anybody wey wan dey charge at them shouldn’t cost us a thing like aboki bureau the change.
This is for the living so they don’t end up like Amope who’s dead, could Aduni be next?
Happy Father’s day, the real men that stand for women. A more direct poem will come.