By Tikum Mbah Azonga
Eleven minutes past nine
Those were her words, I swear
She said them while laughing as if drugged
Waving her white bedroom linen
Like the famous lone ranger at the Marché Dakar.
All alone, she left as she sipped wine
Wondering aloud who had moved up her gear
She hadn't parked the car, so why was it unlocked?
Her bag lay there,in tact but no Stephen
So had someone tricked her to say, "bic" instead of "parker"?
Nonetheless, off, she went, hopeful
Although all alone, in search of the lost one
For years she had gone around, topless
Putting her basket in the place of the cat
And the cat in the place of the basket.
Today though, was the day of retribution, even for a fool
And she knew she must find a white gown
Failing that, she would go home soulless
If they liked, they could skin her on the mystic mat
And parcel off her remains in a gasket.