Ada, I carry with grace

warmth dances on the crevices of my skin

honey leaks from the borders of my chin

will our maker approve of our feminine embrace?

we hum our quiescent tune

singing sweet songs of the west

while coddling and stroking a bees nest

our early leaf’s a honeymoon.

only in shadows, our affair thrives

sweet, like the fruit carried on the young aunt’sy carrying fruit on her head

eerie, like the wise old man warning us of what’s ahead

how will we escape when the sun meets its rise?

you grip my hand, tight like the gele you tie,

and say, “I believe all African children can fly.”