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.