A drop of helium into my soul, 

like a spice. 

An ingredient for independence, 

or uplifting, or sadness. 

Like years becoming stories, 

folktales, near-lies. 

Because they’re too old to be remembered, 

or forgotten—

The taste of mama’s breast milk, 

the taste of African earth,

The taste of pap,

the sound of my favorite lullaby)—

How much? How grown? 

How mature? How evolved? 

When days filtered themselves into years,

When suns wrote stories on our skins.

When breezes carried memories 

across rivers and people’s faces,

I grew and evolved 

into the treasure I am today.

Or, maybe 

it is what I think I am. 

I cannot remember 

how beautiful I used to be 

Before sands became sour with blood, 

before clouds became heavy with condensed tears, 

Before children became men, 

before the world ended. 

___________

Edwardson is a poet, writer from Ahoada, Rivers State. He is an undergrad at the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, with literary works appearing and forthcoming on Madness muse press, African writer, Afritondo, Disquiet arts and elsewhere. He tweets @eddiewatson31.

Photo Credit: Photo by Andrea Piacquadio from Pexels