Kwame sneaks into my thoughts: my younger, suppler, honeyed black skinned part-time lover. His hunger for the world, curiosity of love, sex and humanity. I think of him, of his agility.
Nana, you must learn to love my young mind with your aged hands, I say while indicating right to re-join the M25, and groped his thigh. Finding a slip within his kente I slide my fingers in and explore his soft wet skin. His eyes widen, and I show him a life unburdened.