The Barber killed my baby brother

Statement/Memory

Where do baby brothers go when they cut their hair?
Today my baby bro got his fro locks chopped off.

Good Bye

As I bang on the window right by his face, at the back of the jammed Mega Bus, where I told him not to sit, my eyes which seconds ago followed his youth bounce like target practise. I told him he'll regret the foul smelling toilet, but he is all teenager and all youth knowledge is divine, polar opposite from adult insecurities.

I list off my most unlikely fears and demons of him not speaking to perverts, not to lose his phone, not to leave the bus unless he is abducted by terrorists, to call mum every two hours with a regional update of his exact co-ordinates in the country and to claim his proof of life.

An afro scrunched face looks at me the only way a baby brother can, with a quarter smile of embarrassment and ventriloquist lips shooing me along. I moonwalk it backwards at the pace of a demented snail and the burning realisation that my days of my baby brother have long gone. A man is what stares back at me through the window, sending me the physic message that "your doing ok sis, turn now and gulp down that lump in your throat before you bow your head to hide the tears". As I clasp the tight afro curls in my pocket i get caught up in the longing thought ...where do baby brother go when they cut their hair?