For Nostalgia

The day mother calls thy full name,

She would staple a smile on each letter,

Stress each syllable faithfully

She would walk up through the corridor

as you stand at the front yard

In your pale Nigerian Jersey

You didn’t wash your legs properly

Your ankle just betrayed the truth you were trying to conceal

There you remember;

you forgot to wash the dishes before leaving for football

Her hands are tucked into her hollandis wrapper

But you know those tucked hands aren’t ordinary,

In a space of three seconds you know there’s a third hand in there

A longer and slender one

You slowly begin to step back

as she smilingly steps forward

You try to flee,

But she holds you by the jersey

and if you ever grew up in Africa,

You so well know the end of the story