I was raised by a man
who loved me more than life –
an angry man who snapped
at everything I did.
“Be gentle when you talk to her,”
said my mother.
“Am I shouting now?” he roared.
“You know this is just how my voice is.”
Every night, I told myself, I told God:
I would never marry a man like my father.
And He gave me one —
a man unlike my father.
Ebuka – sweet, kind.
I stood by the kitchen door, smiling
as he fried eggs for our breakfast,
hips swaying to the radio
“Babe, flip it,” I said.
He moonwalked,
eyes on me, smiling.
“Flip it over, nah!” I roared.
Then I saw his eyes.
I knew that look.
It was mine.
I had become my father.
