HYBRIDS

Adesope Michael

a portrait of my country as a ‘bad word’

 

on a sunday morning in october, i stand, wet towel in hand, before light dust on my window panes. forgive me, it is sabbath & on my account, the only love is God’s. my aunt carries her holy body like an old manuscript. i, a stardust, only stare down at the still dust as she ambles towards me, takes her android to my face. see. i think: another folk video is on play on her whatsapp, for to see is to stifle a faint hope. to see in many ways God’s love is a lifeboat— a bridge above a quicksand.

 

brief sight— crowd. sticks held close to the sides.

a short path leads to a man at a road side

dark    bruised     battered    stripped   back hunched; sitting on his butts

voices (barking): oya! confess na! wetin you do?​

 recoiling, he falters.     & in further words, a child hopped

  on a foot into oblivion; the parent wails in the present / body was chopped into bits—

body was chopped into bits—

spare parts of a condemned car        present tense: this handsome 

face is missing; if you have any helpful info, report to the police, pls. /

my niece took a bus at berger, lagos to a who-knows-where / & there’s something

about grace: perhaps, some days are unfortunate & God’s love is not saturated.

legs—short jean & puma slippers— close in on him. a voice halts them.

he gulps. gulps. short of air. he recoils, shifts on his buttsa hand palms his face. 

violent voices grew over.

 I stare down    down    at the brownian motion   the restlessness of the dust displaced into the air.    coldness latches itself on to my wrist    i try to to unsee my country   it is sabbath   but my aunt calls her a bad word    & says nothing   about hope    about faith    mercy    the innocent child   the body parts   about us   left   on this land whose lives we tuck in grace’s full hands.