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.


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