The trader’s scents
Shouted louder than their voices
A perfume parlour
The market became
Fresh air my nose craved.
Knowing eyes
Warm smiles
Gnawed my brown face
My crisp white shirt
And the digital camera
Dangling round my neck.
I felt Caucasian
My heart frowned
Further down
I passed a corridor
Of ebony mamas
Committed to the art of merchants
A sculpted mask I bought
While waiting for kwacha change.
Then I saw a plump girl
With big bright eyes
Like the flower of the ocean
Her body singing as she walked
Though her smile weakened me
It was the song of the curves
That bit me