Fougère This is the love that becomes worship. You had been told that this love
At that time, I was a Fellow at the Ebedi International Writer’s Residency in Iseyin,
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.
The boy is taken with the forest, the musk of wet bark – bold, consuming,
The year Mama fell sick was the year Njideka confessed to me that she was
While I plunged the fishing hook into the river, I was thinking of you: the