Smart Ass

Who are you?
I am a poet.So
you do some
intelligent shit
with words.
Yes I do
intelligent shit
with words.
Well I didn’t ask
for what you do,
I asked for
who you are.
I am
that girl
who does some
intelligent shit
with words.
I am
a poet.


I have been an egg,
all yellow and sunshine
when you splash me in
sizzling fat.

I have swallowed
my tears, creating
a river within, drawing
me closer to you
from a distance.

I have lived
in your words.
I am today
as hard as
the core
of the sea.

Retrace (after Cat Brogan’s ‘You go Back’)

You go back to get your braids done by the ladies that pull
you by the elbow and call you names that are not yours. They call
you Aunty, Sister, My friend like you once played ten-ten together.
Back to the dusty road and men with voices that sound
like tired trucks calling out places with sing-song names
to see if the melodies still makes you break out in sweat.

You go back to bend your knees until your greetings are
tattooed on your waist and your lips bleed respects
floating towards undeserving Aunties and Uncles.
Back to the rusted roofs and houses guarded by guards
with branches pointing to the sky and
gates so high they could maybe see God’s feet.

You go back for the harsh hand of the afternoon sun, to stretch on the straw
mat under the stars, in the backyard of the house that still treats you like a child.
Back to speak with a language that once melted on your tongue
like butter on freshly baked Agege bread only to discover the letters are lost
in bacon, baked beans and toast, washed away with oceans of espresso.
Back to remember the taste of Fan ice yogurt on a burning tongue
for dodo Ikire, crispy dundu and spicy sauce by the fat woman whose daughter
still wears your blue trouser from five years ago, whose son still tastes you on his tongue.

You go back to pout at your mother as she reminds you to swallow
your anti-malaria pills or get smacked, while she cleans the neighbour’s wound,
and help the biscuit seller down the road to birth the bundle of mystery in her belly.
Back to lose yourself in your father’s law book, swim in the wetness in his eyes and the gap in the corner of his mouth as he watches you state your case for hours.He smiles and says you will look good in a black gown and a wig.
Back to mother’s kiss on the cheek and father’s pat on the back
to see if you could ever again sleep in the embrace of the ocean of your sweat
under the attack of singing mosquitoes.

You go back to see if it still burns like furnace,
to see if you still fit in,
to see if it still feels like home.

Open wound (after Warsan Shire, ‘Home’ )


No one leaves Home unless Home is a pot of boiling oil.
You have to understand skin melts like cheese
and no one chooses to live in a body on fire.
No one could take the venom it injects in the mind.
Maybe it’s softer than a rock crashing into your head.

I want to go to the grave where Home was buried
but that is nowhere, for Home is a bag of money gone up in smoke.
Home is a story left unspoken.
Home is the teeth of a deadly cobra.
No one leaves Home until Home starts to poison them.


Let’s not undress
Let’s drink from the
Sparkles in your eyes.

Let’s not undress,
Let’s feed off the
fragrance of my thoughts.

They are beautiful, they are
the unseen space between the
sky and the ocean.

They are me offering
The best of me
Without undressing.