No Plantains in the Dry Season

There is a sickness in my stomach that was not there yesterday,

It is a turning, churning feeling of what was taken from me,

And it doesn’t go away.

Every time I think of you it burns.

If you were here you’d probably just say I should pray.

You like to pray.

 

There is nothing like living with regret.

I don’t want to carry it with me like the baggage that weighs heavy on my heart,

And as such where can I even start,

To unload such a thing?

Such a wrong that can never be undone.

 

Maybe if I’d known I would have asked,

I would have realized,

I should have been kinder,

I surely know better,

I’m not much of a writer but I’m writing this letter.

For you. To apologize for things I didn’t do.

 

I wish there were a way to write about grief that would make the process easier.

Does writing make the process easier?

You were a writer,

Are still a writer in so far as your writing still exists.

Your TV series, remember? You had such a long term plan.

How can it be long term when there is no tomorrow?

You should have gotten to see your work through,

That’s the least the world could have given you.

 

If there were second chances I would not take your life for granted.

I would tell you that your love of gobe makes me smile,

Beans and gari, maybe a little rice

Fried plantains stretching for miles.

The plantains don’t grow now a days,

Not enough rain.

 

I would thank you for being the only one who takes time to read my writing.

I would go with you to church again, a thousand times.

In every little lie the preachers shout I’d see it with you all the more,

All the gari grains of truth. Your love of the youth.  

I would never waste a second chance, no, not a second chance,

But a first….

 

If it’s true that the universe will expand and collapse an infinite number of times,

I hope there’s one where I have proper time to say goodbye.

I hope there’s a universe out there where you don’t even die.

And I do desperately hope there is one where I have time to tell you that I love you,

I do love you, you are a good friend, and good friends are hard to come by.

 

Time is a funny thing, in the end.

If another universe gives me a chance to start over again,

I am not going to waste time in being your friend.

 

You may not have had the chance to do everything you wanted to,

I hardly even feel I do.

But you will always be a famous writer to me, even if you didn’t live your dreams completely.

For the days I have yet to come I will always eat gobe in your memory.   

This poem is about: 
Me
My community
Our world

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