If you grow up the type of woman that will be an architect,
I hope you learn never to build cities in bodies that have long been abandoned,
You will be alone there.
Don’t tarry too long in between worlds,
For you will lose yourself there,
The people will no longer make sense,
They will blur into pictures of your mother,
a wanderer and your father will not be pleased with this.
If you grow up to be a mortician,
I hope you find stories in bodies whose souls have abandoned them,
maybe then you’ll find a map to who you are,
and your father will be proud of you.
Maybe then you’ll find a place you want to make your home,
and your mother will finally visit you.
If your fingers choose art for an occupation,
I hope you choose to paint thunder storms on rainy nights,
I hope you choose suffering as your muse because reality rests there,
you have never chosen happiness or blue skies for inspiration,
you never believed in it’s existence,
you felt more at home with your tears than with your laughter,
and that’s always been ok.
Should you choose to be an actress,
I hope you find the perfect role.
One that reminds you of home,
and leaves you looking forward to tomorrrow.
And if you choose nothingness instead,
a life of existence and not survival,
that will still be ok.
I hope it finds you on a beach in Dar-es-salaam,
sipping on coconut juice and writing poetry.