A PENNILESS MAN AT BOOKSELLERS IN ÌBÀDÀN.

Who should I tell that here, the rows and rows and rows 

and rows of shelves adorned with a hodgepodge of Books 

hold my pockets at ransom upon every visitation? Thank 

goodness that there's nothing like a Book date—my crush 

would have named me after irony—she would have sworn 

that I have no business tattooing the word 'Bibliophile' on 

my forehead. No better place offers the sweetest 

Of confusion— my heart smiling at a book above my budget 

While my eyes want to strip naked every paperback with 

Titles that keep my heart off balance. The first time I 

Sauntered in with a couple of friends; I ended up taking 

Pictures of myself with books I didn't purchase—one of 

My little secrets. My second time, I entered soaked in 

anxiety; I do not want to leave with just a book, I do 

Not want to take pictures with books I won't purchase, 

I do not want to take pictures of books—I imagined the 

Big woman at the reception, brown skin wondering what 

The hell I've been doing for the past one hour when I came 

with just a book, notes on grief by Chimamanda Adichie, in

My hand. Right there, I saw two masked Bangladesh ladies 

paying for a load of books—I wonder if heaven would fall 

If I asked them to add to my book from their cart. Outside, 

I helped a white kid with the toy she left behind, her mother 

Said thank you. I said to myself, the only thank you that

will Cure my anxiety, is to return to my abode with the bookshop.  

Money says, do not plan in my absence— I still find myself 

longing for books every day. I hope I do not find my life 

partner at Booksellers, on days I defy money's warning.