The voice in the eyes (African Nigerian Mothers' Poetry)

I was seven years old, when I learned how not to be told

To politely say “no thank you”; to a cup of bubbly coke, so cold.

But aunty Hafsat kindly beckoned, so I searched for Mama’s approval.

Her smile was warm and friendly, as an angel solidly behind me.

I zoomed in on her face, eagerly waiting for an approval to surface.

Her gentle nod and affectionate smile, made my heart to leap for joy

For the stainless cup was very chilled and called out to me to enjoy.

But in a fleeting glimpse of lightning speed, I caught the movement of her eye lids.

Then the eerie sound of that voice, speaking from her eyes.

That familiar voice, as hard and cold as frozen Rideau's ice.

That voice I once ignored, for a ball of eba from Mama Brenda.

It was a day I’d never forget; of this, Mama was willing to bet.

And though my throat itched as the hairy back of a goat,

I turned to aunty Hafsat, and politely declined the rugged wall.