Bambari

Echezonachukwu Nduka

Featured image: Rain and straw © A. Anupama 2017


The slim girl on ash pants becomes
water at the sight of my brother.

She pours herself on his bed, on the floor,
wets his pants and leaves him panting.

There is no day that dares the fire in her eyes.
Nor is there a night that nurses a greater ambition

than the way she moans. The slim girl on ash pants
says my brother’s cigars are sticks of promise.

She would light one, puff twice, and mumble words
about how her eyes have become a window through

which my brother escapes his fears. I do not know how
a girl becomes an enchantress by seeking to name flames

but I know that my brother’s room is a theatre of sorts
where ladies (especially this one) troop in to melt and become

one with his body, stroking his beards, caressing his hairy chest,
and listening to him speak like an automated stereo voice.

He knows how to drink ladies like water and wine,
this boy; and he drinks and drinks and drinks.