Childhood memories of my father
I hang onto his head
Tiny legs dangling, bumping on his scapula,
From where I sit, on his shoulders,
It's another adventure day,
As we find and mark yet another path in the forest,
That will eventually lead us to his friend's homestead,
Where l get to taste chi 7 days
And mama will never know
Because it will be our little secret,
Between my father and I.
Childhood memories with my father,
When we yet again go to the bush (forest)
To pick up mushroom.
He knew the ones to pick,
The good ones from the bad.
He would pick and pass them to me
And l put them in a weed basket gogo weaved.
This was my happy place,
Our happy place.
Back home he would prepare them delicately,
And we ate from the same plate.
They always tasted better, delicious,
Than when mama cooked them.
We never told her so,
So father always offered to cook
And this remained our little secret too.
Childhood memories of my father,
Tickling me everywhere
With his handsome veined hands,
Now that I think about them
(Chuckle) They look exactly like those of my lover.
Perfectly lined white teeth donned his smile,
Which reached his light red eyes,
Hued by the Mary Jane he sometimes smoked,
This again was our little secret,
Although I suspect mama always knew.
Now that l'm grown,
And years have passed since we last saw,
I want him to relive those memories,
With my galore offspring.
They can't wait to see you papa,
I have told them all l remember about you,
My memories of you.