Ezeano Ifunanya

This man thinks he loves me.

He decorates his legs with the TV remote while I make him dinner. Apologies to his stomach with a
bottle of white wine for ordering his sales attendants, playing chess, arguing politics, and football.He
waits for me in the living room with legs stretched like King whose foes surrendered. I bend my waist to
pound his yam to pulp and make his favorite Nsala soup. He smiles when I help the kids with homework,
wash and clean the dishes, and keep his mansion clean. His clothes are naturally attracted to my hands,
like his mouth to my breasts. He longs for me at night, spreads my legs like a Christmas turkey,
commands me to ride his hill to his climax, and then leaves me hanging. This man thinks he loves me, we
split the bills for economy and balance. He protects me from harm, while I pay the security men to
watch the night. He willingly gave me his last name and buys me things I may never need.
This man thinks he loves me, some days, I think so too.

Loving myself blue.

Have you seen beauty fade?

My beauty turned to food

will feed seven nations fat

this beauty can not

and will not fade

Deep. Kalon!

my hands are made of ceaseless potential

my hips wiggle without Jigida

I speak hope and make mountains bow

the earth moves to the beat of my heart

I am nature’s true pride

Built like an ancient river goddess

a masterpiece in progress.

wait, I’m no braggadocio

this is the song I sing for myself on slow

and gloomy days.

You hear me say I’m beautiful but I mean

I abhor my never to be flattened stomach

and I wish to be seven inches taller

I say I love myself and my mind is at peace

but I mean, am I worthy of love? will these nightmares ever stop?

will my ancestors in the belly of the creek of Georgia smile

when they hear you call me Georgia?

Ifunanya Georgia Ezeano is an author and poet. She was shortlisted for British Loft Prize for Flash Fiction. She reads, writes and just wants to live. 
Twitter: Nanya_georgia