H’accent

My mother told me, that my accent—

is like a warm glass of milk, and a jar of honey, a sweetness in the form of rare indulgent berries

spills from my lips, bursting with iridescent colours

tastes like sweet red jam, toffee and a tub of caramel and butterscotch

spills from my lips, redolent with scents of vanilla and a sprinkle of cinnamon

has been possessed by a choir of angels singing in an elysian universe with exactly three and a half drops of lavender and two strands of Aphrodite’s hair

is a melodious concert, a musical uprising, a cultural phenomenon, cinematic and of earth’s finest instruments

has been laced with potions from a magical little village in Africa, blessed and ordained by the most powerful gods and goddesses alike

is addictive like scoops of chocolate ice cream, and irresistible like the most delightful bonbons

so she told me to—

always sit straight, chin up and eager to give away some of my sweet delicacies

pardon their curiosities, their stares and their “come-again”

smile even after misplacing my h’s and my r’s and never attempt to search for them

speak up with conviction in every gathering, and let my voice be heard in every room

hum and waltz around in private and public quarters and never apologise for being too sweet

but my mother never told me—

that when I grow up, and ready to work in the farmer’s markets, my goods might be unpopular and pushed aside

sometimes people might not buy my confectioneries and I might begin to go hungry and slowly wither away

but even though I haven’t eaten for days and my legs are becoming weak, how could I not share my delicacies?

as I will always and forever be proud, of my honey-laced h’accent.