The Kolanut Collective

Bless their hearts, and hail me a cab,
The prodigal sons are at it again.
They bequeathed us Bibles, debts, and debits,
To chase clandestine desires in Gucci shoes.
You see, we craved a man, unequivocally straight,
No glitter, no limp wrists, no rainbowed fate.
We scorned the bi-curious—how dare they vacillate?
We yearned for unwavering romance, not to fill another man’s empty space.

They whispered “DL,” we feigned ehh?,
Yet Dior lingered where musk should have laid.
He vowed “I’m faithful,” but missed the crucial cue—
How can fidelity be true when it embraces dudes?

And darling, don’t ignite my fury on the gays,
Who sip champagne and dismiss it as a “phase.”
They recoil from the bisexual who dares to proclaim,
Yet yield so readily to Mr. “I’m Proud (but only in the throng’s domain).”

Oh, he’s “straight”—is that the allure you chase?
Reveling in clubland’s shadows, then preaching at dawn’s first trace.
They pursue that facade, that hollow macho myth,
Then weep “he vanished”—what did you envision, sis?

It’s a grand charade in this sanctified land,
Where verities lie interred beneath wedding bands.
And we, the forsaken wives? We’re caught in the crossfire’s blaze—
He cried out “Deji!” in our intimate plays.

So next time, sister, let them be,
Enshrouded in their down-low mystery.
But feign no shock when the familiar ache remains—
Our husbands have gone gay again.

—With veiled affection from the closet under the stairs.