We sit cross-legged on the rug.
She’s grown now –
my cousin I once played ‘house’ with
now draped in the cloak of maturity.
Is this what boarding school does?
Stretches them tall,
ready to face the world?
Her hair is gone.
I’m tempted to run my hand
across her shaven head
is this the price of growing up?
She tells of wild adventures —
the lengths she went to,
guarding milk, milo, cabin biscuits.
A new fear rises in me
as she speaks of Lady Koi Koi,
of Bush Baby and strange night cries.
Will I hear death’s footsteps tonight?
Her voice sharpens
talking of juniors
who’ll wash her clothes
and hand over their snacks,
as she slips into a vengeful tone
I hardly recognise my cousin anymore.
