Brother, I thought, touched me with his ketchup-stained hand.
It was reflex – I just hit him.
My mother said: ‘You all do not have love for each other.’
My mind should have refused the statement;
It didn’t.
It pondered.
Do I love my brother?
Do I love my sister?
Do I even love my parents?
I do not know.
My aunt once asked if I liked her,
I answered: ‘You are my aunt, of course I do.’
You are my…
Love is not a need, but a want.
Are there stages to it?
A feeling before love,
Love might have been there, it may not have –
I think it is when you get acquainted.
Then there is the want,
And then the need;
It may even turn into a hate.
But when does love say:
‘You are my…I should’
Especially, when you do say that of family?
When you have been so tired
Of the loving,
And all that comes with it –
The giving of time – exhausting,
The receiving of everything, because they know what you love and hate?
And then there is the tiredness,
After that, all you can do is do from memory.
When Brother was born,
I was excited,
My mother had not had a baby in three years,
And I was living away from my mother.
When I finally saw him,
I couldn’t wait to carry him.
I remember changing his diapers –
The smell was bad,
I did it though, I wanted to –
I think I loved doing it.
He has grown up now,
He does things that make me angry,
Says things that make me remind him:
‘I used to change your smelly diapers’.
If he needs help to clean his bottom now,
I would not want to, but have to.
But, what happened between
The want and the need?
Did I get tired?
Did he become less loving,
Eventually tolerated?
Or maybe, just maybe,
I did not look for new things to love about him
That would make me excited,
And wanting to do things for him,
Because I want the feeling of excitement.
I can’t think of something now.
He does love football,
I love football.
He is a fantastic player –
He is quite elegant, like Zidane.
I remember watching him play –
You can see he loves it.
I think I liked watching him play.
I smile.
I would like to watch him play again.
Is this a want?
But is it love?
He didn’t have anything when I loved him as a baby?
All I saw was that sparkle of being in the world and discovering new things,
And I excited about that.
But isn’t football a new thing to him?
I guess it is.
Maybe, I still love Brother.
This poem on our Style and Rhythm column was written by
Adaudo Anyiam-Osigwe and is from her book of poems – A Little Understanding: Poems from the End of Childhood to the Beginning of Adulthood