He used to rest his elbow, at the base of the window, in our big yellow toyota pick up. He was so tall, that his hand rested comfortably, simultaniously, on the grip, above it.
And I was sure that I could grow up to have an arm that tall,
Sometimes he would laugh it off,
Sometimes, join me in imaginary awe.
At how tall, sometimes try to manage my expectations by explaining that, though life sometimes has surprises,
Its not likely, as Daddy is not that tall.
He didn’t realise that from a little girls perspective, they were both giants,
That to me, there was no difference between their kinds of tall.
And there was, as I see it now, a small, inconsiquential cultural disconect, between my manner of speaking, and his consern for my cognitive developement.
But we sorted that one out.
We sorted many things out.
We never quite sorted out how, or why he taught me to be boujie without planning to ensure it was provided for. He spoilt me,
rotten, with gifts and affirmations, it’s just,
He wasn’t always there.
Sometimes, even when he was there, he wasn’t there.
That, sometimes, I was the most priceless princess, and sometimes, I wasnt there, when I was there.
Mteja hapatikani, and somehow, I knew, not to apeal to,
side of him.
Mama, kept me safely precious, all the while. All the while affirming me.
All the upheavals, where simply adventures to me. Her and I, the couragious warriors.
In this patriarchal sea.
That gives men options to change their minds,
‘Justifiably’ and legaly
and neglects to do the same for women.
But I rest my arm, just fine today,
Without having to have fitted into, his mould, his car, or his frame.
Sadly, out of the many lessons he actually took time to teach, one shouts over an abandoned haze.
That, it is not given,
someone will catch you tomorrow, even if they spin you around,