Sister,
on the other side of this phone
your voice comes
like palm wine
gone sour
in the heat of noon.
Remember how we danced?
In the marketplace of promises
where we bought and sold dreams
with copper coins
and golden words?
Now your voice
moves like a tired trader
packing up her stall
at sunset.
Brief.
Brief like the harmattan winds
Brief like a child’s first steps
Brief like the life of a butterfly
in December
You say “good luck”
as if luck were a thing
to be handed over
like loose change
at a roadside store.
My sister-who-was-my-love
time has turned us
into strangers who know
too much about each other
too little about now
Our story ends
not with the wail of talking drums
but with the click
of a phoned
going
dead.
