If you see an Igbo girl, you’ll know
from her chunky legs, the evidence
of her undying love for yam,
to her posture that supports the motion
which says: “women and men are equal.”
If you see her, you’ll know
it’s the fur on her skin, and the beard on her chin,
and how her shaving stick mows the lawn on her chest.
You’ll see how her moustache outshines her beauty.
They say beauty is in the beholder’s eyes,
and her moustache is beheld by every eye.
If you see an Igbo girl, you may not know,
she throws questions at her mirror,
and her wardrobe has little room for skirts.
If you see her, you may not know,
of her regrets the first time she shaved,
to realise one can only be bald on the head
you may not know that her lullabies all night
are the laughter and the sneers.
If you see an Igbo girl, you may not know,
that like boys, girls, women, and men
of all races, tribes, and tongues, she’d prefer
God moulded her like someone else.
