Memories, Like the cold ashes of harmattan Slumber upon the mind’s terrace In our silences
Leave something of sweetness and substance in the mouth of the world. — Anna Belle
I love my father for tellin’ me to take off the gloves ’cause everything he
I am of the tribe of reddened oil though bleached from years of smoking beneath
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
For Late Chief Akwaowo The old man peeling stories from the moon-glow sat before me
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