As I watched the young girl slowly fade from my sight, and the breeze from mother nature cloud my consciousness. I thought to myself, what if I had been born to the fish seller that lived two houses away, would I still have my fish Allergy? Would the smell of fish still make me want to puke so bad that I would rather not stay where it has been made?
Would it still matter that I love my sauce a specific way ,and to make it otherwise would mean I would embrace hunger as a much hated friend? Would I still hate bread as much as I do?
Would I still know that Chimamanda Adichie is a great writer? Would I even feel the need to write, or I would rather be more interested in being a sales girl? As it brings in more money than trying to sell fish. Knowing I would be safe from the hot scorching sun
Would I still think that rich people are misunderstood, and everyone has their own set of problem? Or would I have seen enough evil of wealth that I too would rain curses as I pass their fancy cars, intentionally leaving a scratch when no one is watching?
Would I still have standards, or follow the first man who gets me a fancy handbag and nice jewelry? because for the first time in years, there looks like a glimpse of something more than selling fish.
Would I ever dare to dream big, big enough to want the world to be my stage? Would I even know that the world is my stage?
Would I have read the writings of the likes of Mabel Segun, Chinue Achebe, Chimamanda Adiche , that sparked my interest in reading? Or would I have had my literature book flung into the fire because I was reading instead of doing more important things such as hawking fish?
Would I even know what it means to love myself , or I would be too busy surviving to know what it means to love?
Would I ever know that I love ice tea? That the tangy as well as sweet taste leaves me feeling warm and like a warm bath, casts out all feeling of despair?
Would I still like alternative artists? Music that feeds the soul.Or like every one of the street , mofe trabaye?
Would I still believe in morality , or seeing my sister on the sick bed with no money to foot the medical bill make me pick my first pocket?
Would I …?
Would I even have lived to say my first broken words , or lay cold in rest like her first child Taiye who died at birth ?
Then again would I ?
Poetry
African writer
