I Fell For An Ozor

​I fell for an ozor,


the one who tramples an elephant.

It was not his muscles that thrilled me,

You see, he was quite skinny,

And wasn’t really favoured

When it came to the gift of hairs.

But his mouth, 

oh, that mouth,

He used it in all the right ways;

He called me a kween,

I could swear ‘kween’ sounded better

Whenever he said it.

He called me Nneamaka,

And all I could hear was music.

He had a husky voice,

It never really did him much good to sing,

But when he kissed me,

I could swear I sounded just like him.

He said things to me that made me shiver,

‘You are a kween, Nneamaka. You shall not call me Sir,

Or the gods will be jealous, and my harvest suffer’.
I fell for an Ozor,

A Yoruba boy, who made me laugh

He didn’t know much of ibo,

But the little he learnt,

He learnt because of me.
My ozor taught me about Neruda,

And Giovani,

And Brain Pickings,

And Medium.

He said Hemingway talked about me

In one of his books,

And that wandering is an art.
I fell for an Ozor,

A Yoruba boy who called me Kween.


16 thoughts on “I Fell For An Ozor”

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