I
My mother doesn’t speak poetrylese.
She doesn’t hear the whispers of leaves or the rhythm of the roots as they make their way through the earth. She doesn’t read the crawling of ants like braille on her skin. My mother doesn’t hear silence speak. She doesn’t know how to see with the eyes of her heart. I don’t think her heart has eyes at all. She does not know the language of the stars, or the moon, or the dialect spoken by the sun. People do not talk to her in her dreams. She does not know that plants have a language too. She doesn’t care about metaphors or have the patience to wait for imageries to be painted in her eyes. She does not speak poetrylese.
II
My mother thinks all the time and money I spend on books are to make the world a better place. She believes in the scientist that I am. She hopes that I will find a cure for cancer or a permanent way to deal with mosquitoes. She hopes one day a laboratory technique will be named after me because I invented it.
My daughter always writes. Always researches. She is saving lives. She says.
She has no idea I am writing lives. Saving them. Ruining them. Who knows. Words can do both.
They will try to wriggle a confession out of me. They will rain curses on him. They will demand to know the supposed culprit’s house so they can have another family meeting with his parents too. And when I tell them that it is not me in the poem, that it is just a persona, they will give me the legendary factory resetting African slap.
III
Poets are musicians, as far as my mother is concerned. To her, every poem is a lyric. And who takes musicians seriously? Only losers do music. Those who did not go to school and do not have anything better to offer society. I have seen how my mother crinkles her nose up when she hears artists speak.
These mad people who think they make the world a better place by overstretching their voice cords and making weird sounds. She says.
She knows musicians make a lot of money. But it is the devil’s money, and God forbid her daughter earns devil’s money, or becomes a poet.
IV
I hate family meetings. And I don’t see how my mother will read my poems and not call for one. If she takes up any of my poems, her hands will be on her phone making frantic calls to her siblings and inlaws before arriving at the last stanza. It will be a family emergency. Even neighbors and those friends who somehow turn into family will be called. Everyone will be welcome to talk some sense into me.
And aunts!
No one wants a gathering of aunts. They will sit in a semi-circle, with me before them: head low and my shame a halo above my head. They will pass my poem from one bewildered hand to another. It will be a love poem. They will shake their heads; make a valley out of their mouths, clap their hands, and let out both audible and inaudible sighs. They will look at me with eyes carrying both disappointment and wonder. They will wonder how I am able to write all these things. Wonder how I even know these things exist, the child that I am. They will try to reconcile their sweet daughter with the stranger on the page. Then they will ask for the identity of the one who has taken my heart..
Who is the boy, or man, or demon spoiling our daughter. They’d say
They will try to wriggle a confession out of me. They will rain curses on him. They will demand to know the supposed culprit’s house so they can have another family meeting with his parents too. And when I tell them that it is not me in the poem, that it is just a persona, they will give me the legendary factory resetting African slap.
No please. I will pass.
V
I need my mother to believe I can be rich.
She knows no rich poets. No. She knows no poets at all. But she knows writers do not make money. And if she ever knows I am the worst of writers, a poet, it will shatter her heart. Poets break hearts. I don’t want to break my mother’s heart.
VI
My mother does not know me.
She does not know that I cry too. I conceal my pain from her. Hiding it behind a facade of huge smiles, carefree laughs, and a ton of work. I do not want her absorbing my pain and making it her own. She has her own share of pain, too.
If she reads my poems, she will see me bleeding on the pages. She will know that I do not sleep well at night. That I wake up early because the night is too dark and heavy. She would see my broken heart, its pieces scattered all over my chest. She would see my wounds, perceive the decay oozing out of them. She will know the smell I am trying to send away when I flood the house with turaren wuta even though I cough all through it. She would see me grieving for people she did not know I knew. Grieving for things she never knew I possessed. She would find all the details of a life she never knew I lived. My mother should not read my poems.
VII
My mother thinks I have sense.
She looks at me and sees this calm, collected daughter who says the right things at the right time. This daughter who walks with her head almost touching the ground and her feet barely making a sound. The perfect example for her younger siblings. The preferred exhibit when her peers talk about their kids. The one who does as she is told. I am the perfect child in my mother’s eyes. No way I am telling her I am mad.
My mother should not read my poems.
She should not read this too.