At that time, I was a Fellow at the Ebedi International Writer’s Residency in Iseyin,
the small finger of water poking close, as with everything subjected to rot. we sometimes
After Sage Ravenwood’s “Bookends” Here the hand that burrows deep. A son’s bruised face.
(For Amarachi; Chijioke’s sister) That flew on a warm Nigerian evening, north across the frigid
but I fear I lack the courage to accept it, I can’t look it in
The living room in CHIEF GOODTIME’S mansion in that part of town as still as
The love I have for Doremi is a watermark, not a pencil line. I tell
(for Fr. Felix Tyolaha, Fr. Joseph Gor, Mbalom and Naka)² On a quiet dawn in
Her sclera is a waned flax colour, like the husk of a ripe cacao fruit.
Dear Chinedu, It’s funny, but I just realised I’m free from all your drama.