Thumbing through the past,
I remember when Kenny Kwan
punched me in the face and broke
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.