Whenever I see a woman on low cut, whether golden, wine, brown or black curls or coils she rocks cropped. I think of you. Of the night I met you and how your smile injected peace into my tired face. Of how I was so sure you would be mine. In less than 2 mins, sitted beside me, your fair skin beaming in the night, you dispelled my assurance. You were for yourself, alone. I didn’t stutter that I hadn’t meant I wanted to own you. Instead I nodded and knew from then on. I knew we’d never fry plantain or ofada stew together and watch the orange sun set. You would stop responding to my texts. I cancelled our first date because of stabbing menstrual cramps during a thunderstorm.
I saw your post online some weeks ago. I was surprised I still followed you. I thought I unfollowed you after realizing you were ignoring my calls and texts. I remember feeling my anger and jealousy dispel as I gazed at your right cheek, arched pink lipped smile, delicate eyelashes and small breasts obscured by the dress. I felt at peace. Your caption had said you had been searching for peace.
My full eyebrows shot up surprised. You found it. Where? I wasn’t surprised. What made me surprised was that you didnt know. You could simply look at yourself and be at peace. You see you are an enlightenment in herself, drapped with serenity, colored warm with kindness.
You could have simply let me see you again. So you could look into my brown eyes which would have been cleansed by shed tears from the chopped purple onions and fried palm oil smoke. So you could look and see that you are peace. But it isn’t simple. Probably won’t have been simple even if I swam across Mile 2 to Lekki, my womb perforated raw.
You were searching. For yourself. I’ve taken that journey. I still would have kissed your soft cheeks and their tiny blond hairs while leaving the jazz club I never came to. Today I saw another woman. She had this dusty brown,light wine low cut. I thought of you. I prayed you had found the peace that is you.