Thumbing through the past,

I remember when Kenny Kwan

punched me in the face and broke

my glasses.

I spit up blood like a spittoon

and floods of tears drowned my words.

Kenny was punished and I was sent home.

I did not tell my parents what happened

that day, but the event tainted my jollof rice,.

the rich timbre of my mother's cooking. 

The next day,

I befriended the playground grass,

as green as grasshoppers. I watched

the sun stain the earth while Kenny

was hectoring another timid, skinny

innocent like myself.

Kenny Kwan, the instrument of destiny,

the ragged edge of my youthful memories.