I remember that innocent smile as you leaned over
The first time I’d ever entered the youth office
I remember I had more retakes than course-units
“What can I do you for, my daughter?”
I need advice, Pastor. Not your number.
I remember the Whatsapps that one night
I mentioned that I was tired of being lonely
I remember when you said
“I shall lay hands on you, my daughter”
On my head, Pastor. Not my thighs.
I remember one of our favorite ‘meets’
You were panting. I even forgot my pantie
I remember your breath at the back of my neck
“I will always love you, my daughter”
Love me forever, Pastor. Not for the night.
I remember the day we woke up at 3
to pray for the youth conference
I remember you prophesied to me
“You shall bear good fruit, my daughter”
From my heart, Pastor. Not my womb.
I remember fasting for you to leave her
I was carrying the son she’d failed to give you
I remember asking what we would name him
“The Lord will help us choose, my daughter”
Choose an heir, Pastor. Not a wedding ring.
I remember when I called you sobbing
She had threatened to put me six feet under
I remember your calm and soothing voice
“I will protect you, my daughter”
Protect our son, Pastor. Not your reputation.
I remember when he was finally born
You were in the States with your wife
I remember the pain in my mother’s voice
“Never trust any man, my daughter”
Visit your son, Pastor. Not your donors.
I remember the look in the nurse’s eyes
The flask fell as mummy run out wailing
I remember that knot crawling up my throat
“The baby didn’t make it, my daughter”
You’re in the clear, Pastor. No more hassle.
I came to this roof-top’s edge to see the night sky
I heard that if I jump, these bright stars will catch me
I now recall the words that drew me to you
“Reach for the stars, my daughter”
You’ll find my body as lifeless as you left my heart.