So, my love
My sweet girl that has flown over seas and between continents
When your feet hit the ground and you remember all the things about home
Both this one and that one
You'll hear voices in your head calling you to two different places
And you'll feel like crying, but you won't
You won't because the flight has taken everything out of you
You'll cry later
You'll cry when you see English muffins on the counter and crave nothing but red red and fried plantains
You'll cry when you take your first hot shower
Not because of the absence of cold water but because of the absence of the sun on the equator
That pure form of radiant sunlight that made you crave a cold shower
You'll cry when you put on those fuzzy leggings
And when you miss the feeling of thin sheets on your bare skin on a hot night
You'll cry when you realize the country you called home for so long has not changed
And you'll cry when you realize that you have
You'll cry when you realize that you are more woman than when you left the hollow walls of the city
You'll cry when you realize that this is the same home but a different person living inside your skin
You'll cry when you miss the markets
And the cities
And the rooms
And the friends that you built new homes in
You'll cry because home is no longer home
You'll cry because home will always be home but home is also a place so very far away
But, my love
My sweet girl that has flown over seas between two different homes
When your feet hit the ground, I want you to remember the souls you touched
The lips you kissed
The hands you held
When your feet hit the ground
I want you to remember the stories about why you should never eat the head of a fish that's gone mad
I want you to remember the way to say "thank you" in Twi
I want you to remember the way to get to Teshie Market
I want you to remember the first time you ate banku with your first love
I want you to remember how your fingers get a little pruny and his always stayed soft
I want you to remember the different textures of your hand scraping against the foreign ball of pounded cassava
Yes
I want you to remember the different textures
The different cities
Different cultures
Different time zones
Traditions
Different stories in different worlds
But the same ball of banku