The Sweet Curse of Nostalgia

By: Sankara “Le prince heritier” Olama-Yai

I love the smell of cigarette smoke 

Not because I’m a smoker, I love the smell because 

It takes me back, back to the piss stained streets 

That raised me, where the overwhelming aroma

Of freshly lit cigarettes plagued the air 

I love the taste of wine, the fermented freshness swims 

About in my mouth, skipping merrily atop my taste buds 

The slightly bitter aftertaste takes me on a journey 

Through nostalgia seeped memories, back to familiar scenes 

Summer afternoons in Paris with my grandfather

He’d always give me a sip as my curious eye latched onto his glass 

I fell in love with the succulent juices of Italian vineyard wines 

I feel a tinge of comfort, let slip a smile, on packed trains and buses 

Which remind me of my crowded commute in Moldova 

I reminisce on hot sunny days and bumpy rides

Dragging out and dusting off ancient memories of 

Those sweltering school days in Congo

The best days of our lives are trapped in the closet of our minds 

Little things help float them to the surface unwithered

These little drops of reminiscence that drip from the cave of our souls

Are both a gift and a curse 

The bittersweet taste of nostalgia, so warm and fleeting, 

Yet forever painful