Do Not Say You Know Me

Posted on Posted in Poetry

A curtain separates us, love on one side, nakedness on the other, here in my house, chickens roam freely, at first I used to chase them away, but not anymore. I can’t remember the taste of chicken, it’s been so long yet I can never harm the one beside me.

Nakedness peers behind the curtain she says “Love, be a dear and please pass me the lotion.” I stretch out my hand, the distance is small, the lotion passes from my hand to nakedness, I do not look, I only feel her fingers as she grabs it from my hand. Nakedness acknowledges my shy mannerisms, with a chuckle. I love when she does that. I invariably cough and stretch out my collar, as if to brush of the timidness.

The chicken walked out a long time ago, it finds my house boring, and I do to. With its small battery radio, and no television thick air and river of clutter. I’ll get a better house someday, but if I do the chicken will no longer be able to sit beside me. My grand refrigerator is where its seat will be reserved.

Nakedness is covered now, she walks from behind the curtain clothed. My neck is docile to her movement.

“You look good.” I tell her.

“Thank you, but you always say that.”

It’s true, nakedness who is now clothed never looks stodgy to me… She is always a fresh pot of Ugali, Matoke and fish stew to me. Even in the morning, when she has bags of maize under her eyes. After all they are my bags, no one else’s. The rickety couch I offer to my guests squeaks as she slumps beside me. Nakedness who is now clothed baffles me. She’s never cast a disapproving look at my house, she’s never wiggled her nose funnily when a whiff of the neighbor’s stinky sardine walks in.  It’s as if she is blind. She props her legs up and rests them on my lap, she looks comfortable, too comfortable than I want her too.

Nakedness who is now clothed is not from this part of town. She resides where the steel gates make no apologies for the grandeur inside the houses.

Nakedness who is now clothed notices my train of thought and she says, “Aren’t you going to cook for me? …Such a bad host, and turn on the radio.” I oblige, bending over to search for a groovy frequency. It’s going to be a wonderful night.

Kyansimire Oroni

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