I am Back

1.
I am back.

I am back to where this racket all began.
The dirt road that leads to Mattingley Heights, an upscale suburb in
this part of town.
There is a three-story White House atop the Hills where I lived for eleven months,
a pretty frail colonial structure furnished with a panoramic view of the Caribbean Sea and the adjoining shorelines.
It is owned by Ms. Miller, that sweet old witch that tried to mother me a second time.
I am back to this White House that laid out my heart for breakfast,
ate my solitude for supper, and held my mind steady like jenga,
This place took me, folded me, then tossed me out like an origami — But
I am back like a lust for pain, like boomerang, or an Ogbanje,
like a bounced cheque, or a detective to a crime scene,
desperately looking to see if I missed any clues,
a totem that keeps spinning in the backdrop,
or my dead uncle, or out-of-place paraphernalia.
Anything. Something.
I am back like all of these things, but yet like none of them.
I am back merely for forensics, to raise dead bones,
cutting through yellow tapes and
ducking do-not-cross signage.

2.
There are monkeys screeching in my front yard —
Not surprising.
Back then, those voyeuristic creatures
always pranced around my window craving
to see some action, but you know me, there wasn’t really any action,
half the time I was mostly praying or speaking in tongues and hymns,
edifying myself as my bible advises.
But even that, excited them — I think anything excited them.
They grunted so loudly like they were subletting this apartment with me.
I remember when I first told you about my aversion to monkeys,
and you laughed that your annoying belly-laugh.
You would even take my already scarce snacks
and give to those deeply mischievous gang of robbers that
take up space like they were the firstborns of eden.
You had some bloody nerve.
They are crooks in a way that tugs at your emotions,
melts your heart, conflicts with your essence;
it’s how we keep rooting for anti-heroes in a Netflix series,
like Walter White in Breaking Bad, Raymond Reddington in Blacklist , or
Tommy Shelby in the Peaky fucking Blinders — the story unfolds in a
way that humanizes the character, portrays the moral contraption
we are as human beings, with deep contradictions and multiple belongings —
“These are not bad men” we say, “they are just doing bad things”.
Strange now to think of it, that this luxury extends only to movie characters,
and to ourselves only. But to no one else. Not the other.
The antihero is a reflection of the wave of incremental rationalizations and
morally justifiable outcomes we surmise,
so we judge others by their outcomes, but judge ourselves by our intent. How nice.
Anyways, that’s the crux of my dissertation I told you about a while ago.
I have titled it “Fundamental Attribution Error: Cancel Culture, Social dilemma,
Virtual hypocrisy and the death of Nuance”.
It is probably lying unread in your spam folder gathering dust — but that’s alright.
The monkeys are still there.

3.
This part of the poem was intentionally deleted.

4.
My mum still asks for you daily like vitamins,
she still calls you Olanma — beautiful jewel.
She says you have a beautiful smile, that when you laugh,
your eyes glisten and your face glows up
as the unraveling petals of morning glory at dawn.
There is an inside joke of how you pronounced “ndi nkuzi”
that makes it sound South African.
Do you still remember our long walk to the lobster spot down by Old Road bay?
You donned your oversized black organza dress shirt,
snapped at the waist with an eyelet belt,
endlessly walking the distance when we could have just called a cab.
But we already got past Challengers, so we decided that was pointless.
You asked me how ocean borders are defined,
where one ends and the other begins,
what makes a sea, and what makes an ocean —
Darling, I wish I knew.
The only geography I know and want to know,
is the topography of your body contours,
right here, right now, with my lips pressed against yours.
In this town of fifty thousand bodies, I am back for just one.
Long before I called myself a poet or a writer or a storyteller,
long before I started transcribing and translating emotions into printed verses;
painful and blissful memories into swelling dust of mist,
long before Ozymandias, and much after Ozymandias,
there was you, diffusing through every phase of my experience,
weaving a universe of flowers within, taking the tapestry apart and
putting it back together.
I am back for you.

5.
My flight leaves in two days.
Call me when you get this.