Look at us. Amaka, just look at us.
The rocks are broken; the spring is dying. We no longer care.
The way a hen spread her wings around her chickens, that was how I once shielded you from hate. Fearless, we sang our songs, of oppression and relief, of hate and love, of poverty and wealth. We’ve been through rough edges, drifting and finding back our balance.
Six years ago, when I showed the world my love, they laughed at you. They said your legs were like drum sticks, they wouldn’t hold ground. They said you nose was like conical flask, flat at the base.
The negative criticisms took a toll on us, and we crawled into the shell of self pity. Our emotions drowned in the comfort of still waters when we were supposed to soak them inside a living spring.
Come Amaka; come my love. Let’s go back to our ottoman under the umbrella tree, where crickets played the flute and crows sing to the rhythm of the breeze. It was there we first started. It was there I looked into your eyes and the stars of our future glistened. It was there I planted my first kiss, and the leaves gave a loud applause. Come place your bare lips on mine yet again; let me redeem the living spring of love.
Photo by Diana Simumpande