Ms. Burkhina Faso and me,
We’re having tea.
We got problems to discuss:
Delegates of our respective lands,
Transmitting mutual warmth through our hands.
No, I know that you are spotless,
Where her geographic spot lies along the wider Atlas:
“Most probably Africa”, or a “latitude south of Tahiti”,
If Tahiti makes sense, since Kiribathi
Is as far as the milk rice stretches.
Faso, your face tonight is an open book:
No woman at night looks the way you look.
I tell you how they threatened to take off
The face saving GSP+. We sneer
At the suggestion, between the two of us.
These are the petty trips the donor programmes
Give us, developing lands: a
10 week scholarship to a mirthless joint
And an evening tea with some 3rd rate writer
Who, to light up a smoke, borrows your lighter.
“I want to join the UN” and you
Smile through your tea. Well, perhaps I,
Then, should go join the UNP.
Guess we both have as equal a chance
To entertain a lap dance.
“Countries like ours need more youth representation”;
“And women” you add, after consideration.
Duckspeak is a word I learnt in 1984
And these are fond sentiments I have heard
Time and again all the more.
She wants to pay for my book,
Though I am not on her reading list.
I say no, no one buys these anyway,
I manage to lull her insist. But, then she says
She wants to pay for the tea. Well, that’s