Poetry - A Cameroonian Husband in the Diaspora

 by Viola Allo

There is a man in Cameroon
who wants to marry me.
He sends messages to California.
Says we can spend
lots of time together, and
he'd love to take me. To Kribi.

So that's what they do these days?
The couples in Cameroon. The ones rich enough.
Go to the white sand beaches of Kribi
and drench themselves
in a bounty of rough Atlantic waves.
Bodies like ships grazing
a rocky shore. They sink. Fast.
Feet explore the ocean floor and anchor
hands that uncover smooth things.
Fingers rush and spread over brown skin
like warm water foam cupping round pebbles.
Up above the lovers, tropical sky heaves
a deep sigh. Gratitude to the sun,
whose equatorial rays penetrate
blankets of trees or coffee-colored melanin.

Perhaps, I am doing what I do best:
imagining the worst.
Maybe he wants us to talk
and hold hands. Maybe all
he has in mind is harmless kissing
under a coconut palm. Perhaps.

“Forget it,” I say. “I will never—
I'm sorry, what I mean is, you sure as hell
don't want to marry me.”

But he says he is certain
that I am the one.
I tell him that
I will think about it. Truth.
I do think about it. About marrying him,
about loving a man from Cameroon.
But, tonight, I'm done thinking.
I rub my eyes like a tired toddler
and blink away a restless anxiety.

I am going to do this man a favor,
so he can lead a happy life.
I am going to tell him the truth, that
I do not know what it means
to be a Cameroonian wife.
That I don't give a damn about Kribi.
That Poetry is my husband and he
is quite demanding.

Poetry. My husband in the Diaspora
goes everywhere I go. Follows me
where I lead, but maintains that he
is the head of my household.
Tells me what to do. Has the final
say. Vetoes every decision.
Takes my money away from me.
Asks for his supper to be warmed,
for his laces to be undone and
his shoes pulled off. His shirt collars
to be cleaned and ironed right.
His relatives to be appeased,
his needs to be met.
Lures me with words like
“Sexy Woman, kam for ma konna.”
Hot chocolate steaming face, he smiles
at me. Breathless, holds and fills me
with slippery poem seeds.
Babies that I must carry and feed.

I suffer so much pain
just getting through the day,
trying to please Poetry.

And any leftover love I have
is taken up, is spent
on loving my Cameroonian father.
What I need is a man who has a heart
that is able to waste its time loving me—
a courageous man who knows
how to deal with my despair,
my confusion over Cameroon
and if I belong there.

I am worried that Cameroon,
with all its strong-muscled, sweet-lipped
young men, has yet to offer up
the right man for the job.  

Comments

[wgb]

ALL women who love me hate poetry, yet all i have to do with them is poetry!I am elated to see a cameroonian woman who has espoused poetry as hubby! STRANGE! but i respect u the more for that! By the way, do u know Fifi Allo Allo, she was my class in LGA Class of 98, linguistics UY1!
keep it on!
yours,
wgbarf@yahoo.fr

[Tejon]

Beauty poem. Hope that man marries you... Tejon