Two houses away, a compound holds a choir of sympathizers. The seamstress’ daughter returns from
—for boys who endured abuse someday, the lost shall meet the dead a boy wanders
V forgive me, but my favourite misdeed is despair/ & i do not know how
For Late Chief Akwaowo The old man peeling stories from the moon-glow sat before me
Onwudiwe’s sitting room, old fashioned and faint. The atmosphere is gloomy; a dozen wailers sit
I gather my shame into a pool at midnight, constellating. Is it not a wonder
Abeg, shey na pesin future Wey dis people dey tie im leg so? Na pesin
each pill guts out your insides// each swallow// each nudging down the nook of your
The day before, she was the wind brushing over tables with teacups and St Louis
Two addresses. Dates hanging by both tails, as in a formal letter. Take out this