Tokoloshe

I don’t knock. I slip under. I wait behind the wall. You forget the herbs, skip the chant, leave the bowl by the door—and I remember for you. I’m not cruel. I’m consistent. You made me from your own neglect, your half-done rituals, your whispered curses left to fester. I give back what you ignored. And yes, I laugh when your mealie-meal spills. But you already knew that.