You said she was a mistake
But you breathe in when
She wrapped her waist
Around your neck
You sucked her honey
Called her honey
Let her be your baby


I am 20 going on 30.
In a decade I did hope
I’ll be bearing a man’s signature:
A cycle of torture
Or a bond of pleasure
His name tattooed between the
Two dimple on my buttocks
Looking down the cracks
Where he would fall
If the devil possess
Him to ever raise his hands.

I did hope for four tiny feet
Mouths open to the heavens
Like baby chicks
pretty and strong
Each to its own.

I did hope
I’ll be the boss lady
Rocking the biz world like Jaga.
Shitting on bank rolls
And rolling up the dough.

I did hope I’ll remember
Who I am and not live
Through people’s eyes.


I have lived a few years
Cried a few times
Seen silence taken for consent
I have lived a few years
Suffered significant injustice
Watched innocent people lament
I have lived a few years
Cried a few times.


This burden of
Love has forced my hand
Emptied my pocket
Set me on fire

This burden of
Love has forced my feet
Robbed my spirit
Got me believing

This burden of Love
Might be the death of me
This burden of love
I will die for


Listen mama
My skin has become an elephant
Under your belt
Every stroke breeds a new layer.

But your words hurt
Like a bullet
They push me along
A path less taken.

Your silence kills me
They stop the blood
From reaching
My heart.

Your tears
Oh mama
Your tears
Stops my breathe.


There are days
I do not
want to be strong.
When I want to
own every despair
that crosses my heart.
When I want to
taste every pain
that has found a couch
in the inner corner of my thoughts.

These days I want to melt
like a butter human scuplture
having malaria.
Become one with
the mattress and duvet.
Breathe in the wamth of my breath.
and fall into sorrow
like a pack of cards.
These days I want to
be sad
And not be told to be
a strong black woman.


Sometimes the world sits
On your shoulders,
Sending a shiver
Down your legs
Like a safari

Life just likes
To say ‘hey you



I understand your ears
Cannot taste the flavour
In the words I served.
I have chopped syllables
Buried beside your placenta,
Wrapped them in words
Plucked from the branch glittering
With a slice of your skin and a drink
of your blood.

I have cooked them under
The skirt of a Nigerian sun.
Sprinkled on them a drop of mama’s special twist,
with a dash of tongue twig soaked in her drawl,
dried for years under the cold eyes of an harmattan sun.

Forgive my words for their shyness,
Your confused look place
them under a shadow and
they stumble on the bumps of my tongue.
Your questions make my stomach
Crawl into itself like that of a
Vegetarian forced to digest a
Plate of raw salmon,
They show me how little your world is.
But I am sorry your language
Has not developed words
That can paint the brightness
Of my world into the plain canvas
of your mind.

So I this day offer you your language
Coated in the honey of my accent
And I do not apologize if it bruises
Your baby soft skin as it hits you
In the face.


Get over
seconds after
I slid through
a slimy canal.

Then it was
a girl
a list of names
Then it was me
Then I was me.

So get over