Saturday, December 10, 2011
... pops makes my birthday
and a few hours ago, we were like boys together, on the phone. like homegirls. just me and my pops. talking shit and serious stuff and laughing. talking about how the election is gonna go. the president. satanists. the opposition. culture. christians. death. gays and lesbians. America. Islam. heathens. colonization. me talking about my birthday, though i don't think he knows off the top of his head how old i am exactly, and what it means (i think he prefers me his kid always, like i'm not supposed to grow(!)). him talking about his birthday, which apparently means more coz he shares it with Jesus. me saying, wait up pops, how did people know of dates back then (in '38) somebody maybe confused it, and him saying, coz my father was edmacated, anyway that sounds like jealous talk from folks who wish they were born on the 25th, he said, coz we do tease like we're boys, like we're girls. me and my pops. my phone tripping, beats of conversation skipped on my end but me connecting the dots still coz he speaks in long winded sentences, never a clipped lines man unless he's mad. and we were like boys together on the phone. like homegirls. the knots in my heart untangling at last, me laughing all my little anxieties away and feeling quite ok about my birthday after all. me getting off the phone and feeling like my birthday after all, and going out to dinner with a friend, somebody else's father, and blowing out a candle and taking a pic with a blackberry phone, talking politics and Africa and constitutions. talking Zambian politics. the differences between the set ups of west African and southern African cities. Edgar Hoover. talking. on my birthday. no sweet nothings. just me and these two beautiful fathers who made my day.