A Note to a Friend— Part II
By Josephine Ansumana, Freetown, Sierra Leone.
I
“Maybe you resist falling in love”, you tease.
Guess what? You always make me laugh.
And no, I have never resisted falling in love
Honestly, the fact of the matter is that
I find Love to be too surreal and ethereal
It does not happen to people like me
It does not know me by name
Nor does it know where I live
So it does not bother to come my way.
II
For starters, where do I find love
On the long winding road of life?
In back alleys, poor houses and street corners,
Corner shops, shopping malls, and book stores,
Or in church pews, library hallways and gas stations
Oh! Yes, I forgot. Online, of course
But that, as you may have guessed
Is really not my ideal spot or scene.
III
Besides, how would I know when I do find love?
What are the standard telltale signs of love
What statistical instruments should I measure it by
Is it black, brown, white or yellow, perfumed or odious?
Is it refined, subtle and malleable, or is it
Shrewd, rigid, calculating and manipulative
Does it speak an innate universal language
And giggle, smile, laugh, weep, moan, groan or cry?
Would it make me laugh and cry at the same time
Would it take my breath away, and leave me lost for words
Would it steal the last breath within me on a whim, or
Would it nurture me with life giving sustenance?
IV
Someone did introduce me to love once,
But it was just a shadowy image
It broke a leg, twisted an arm, and slapped the face
Of his beholder one time too many.
It raged and panted, cursed and kicked
And threw a few rolling punches
Then love turned in on itself and went berserk
It became hateful, spiteful, fearful and vengeful
Then held the knife is its loving fist,
And delivered the fatal blow to life
With a careless jiggered slice thrust in its name.
V
What about the men who cross your path? You ask.
Now the men who cross my path
Surely they do cross my path— in the name of love
What can I say? Except for one . . .
I have no idea what love might make of them
One thing I do know is that they are…
Mostly married (that is understandable at my age).
Though a few do come single and much younger in age—
About my younger brothers’ age and no older
Interesting to note that in spite of their age
They all have one thing on their mind— except for one
Of course, I read through them like an open book
And can figure them out a mile away— except for one
VI
They all come with the same story line— except for one
Recycled and rehearsed from the same old script—
Detailing the ten steps on how to justify
The aggrieved male victim syndrome one-O-one.
They want nothing more than a pat on the back
And a few strokes to soothe their bruised egos.
Though sometimes laudable and convincing,
Their story has no substance, except the signature goal
Of maintaining the status quo—
Having “the best of both worlds” seems fair game,
In their twisted game of lust, they call love.
So I chuck them all up to “same ole same ole” except for one.
VII
Maybe, I want more from a relationship
Stability, nurturing, fidelity, the whole nine yards.
Maybe I am living in an illusion – who can blame me?
Maybe I am not open to love. Or maybe, just maybe
I should take love where I find it, and move on.
But you know, I never really thought of it that way till now.
VII
On second thought, you might be absolutely right.
Maybe, life stepped in the way, and I got busy
I stopped looking, wanting, caring, hoping and wishing for love
And now I am too jaded to believe in love any more,
Or put myself out in the path of love. But I do trust
That if it is really meant to happen, it will surely happen,
When I least expect. Maybe it already has.
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