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
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