Ice Cold Water 

One hot afternoon, I was walking along in Milton Keynes, across the lawn,
and these thoughts crossed my mind.  By the time I had reached my destination,
this poem was written in my head…  

I miss the taste of ice cold water from a calabash 

I miss the peace of sitting on a veranda sipping cold beer 
with just a burning coil
To ward off the dangerous predator
I miss the sound of children of children playing football
on the dirt road that runs behind my bedroom window.
The thud of that  ball as it hits my whitewashed walls.
The hushed silence as a hero braves that same wall to rescue
an errant ball from beneath my mango tree.
He climbs back amidst cheers and he is Pele for the moment.
Bare feet kicking patched balls
At times waiting patiently for the occasional vehicle that
interrupts play.
I miss the three hours it takes to walk a hundred yards,
as it involves a stop to enjoy the conversation of every
neighbour.
Their health, their wealth their blessings.
I miss dropping in on a friend knowing a dinner for two can
be stretched to three
with no offence.
The little basket of beautiful food handed to me by the shy
little boy
Could only be from Araba down the road,
who hardly speaks to me,
But smiles at me beautifully with her eyes and her lips.
It says; “I believe you are man enough for my woman
and I am woman enough for your love.
I miss the sight of ‘braggadocios’ young men walking down
the path with loud laughter and exaggerated swagger, yet
lowering their voices and stepping aside dutifully when the
older folk take the same route.
Oh I miss the taste of ice cold water poured from a cooler
into a calabash.
I miss the smell of sweet ripe plantain roasting on a charcoal
fire proclaiming a perfume into the sky that climbs into my
nostrils and drops into my belly
To explain away the rumble I felt earlier.
I am hungry, but of all that the creator offers, only the
roasted, toasted plantain will suffice.
I miss the shout of vendors elegantly balancing their goods
on their heads, proclaiming the excellence of their ware.
Walking by, smiling and saying; “My beautiful, sweet and
juicy oranges, once you’ve tasted them you will find no equal
and you will always come back to me”.  How eloquent!
I miss the sand between my toes as I watch the waves caress
the shores.  The taste of fish, caught an hour ago, deep fried
and broken with sweet hot bread, baked in a clay oven.
Sitting on the shores and staring at the sea, wishing for the
wonderful life the people on the other side must have.  I bet
they have something nicer than coconut milk to wash down
their meal. 

Oh I miss the taste of ice cold water from a calabash.  

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