My imagination of us both
Was a drawing of perfection,
Worthy of a place in the museum of pictures,
Framed in length and breadth,
Glassed and hung in the hall of hearts.
But it took an eternity
For me to realize we are not an auction,
Nor to be purchased or showcased at a function,
For women in Aso ebi to stand in ovation.
When I met you sitting with a parcel of Suya,
And accompanied you, I was never thinking of perfection.
And if I did,
It would be the union of our imperfections.
They say a right cannot be made of two wrongs,
Why don't we multiply our minuses and make a plus?
