Two Plates

Madam, two plates, please.
No, she's not my wife. Yet.
(two plates)

Lunchtime at the market canteen,
I'm rehearsing how to say hello.
You sat down with your fried rice queen-style,
sunglasses pushed up, radio low.
I ordered big to look established:
two plates, extra meat, cold drink.
You looked at my table, then my face, and said,
"You dey expect somebody?" I said, "I dey hope."

You laughed and moved your tray over.
The canteen held its breath.
One table, two strangers, and jollof
doing what jollof does best.

Two plates! (two plates)
I came prepared for destiny.
One for you, one for me —
if love is a table, sit with me.

Order more! (pull the chair)
One table! (destiny)
If love is a table —
sit with me!

Plot twist: you finished your plate
and reached across for half of mine.
No permission, no apology —
just rights. I watched you like a shrine.
The canteen madam started laughing:
"This one don enter, God don catch am."
I said, "Madam, mind your pot" —
then ordered you a cold drink and a plan.

You laughed and moved your tray over.
The canteen held its breath.
One table, two strangers, and jollof
doing what jollof does best.

Two plates! (two plates)
I came prepared for destiny.
One for you, one for me —
if love is a table, sit with me.

Truth is, I go back every lunchtime now.
Same table. She keeps it for us.
The madam doesn't ask anymore —
she just shouts "two plates!" when I reach the door,
and the whole canteen answers "and a plan!"
Some proposals start with a spoon.

Eh! (order more)
Eh! (pull the chair)
(the madam knows)

Two plates! (two plates)
The madam shouts it when I reach the door.
One for you, one for me —
if love is a table, sit with me.

Madam, two plates.
Yes. Every day. Forever.
(and a plan)