I’ve been a whirlwind pelting after you
for the doing of the needful . Now i sit my kneels on the stoop,
hands raised in submission. The thing I baptized needful scuttled
into blaze-filled crucible & morphed to behemoths. It’s now a
longing tucked in the nub of crypt – gashed , mashed & comatose.
remember the cantata we hum as we cortege towards the cemetery?
that requiem we don’t want the tongue to kiss because it tastes like
hell-coated spikes ? It’s what my desire morphed to .
A lion-clawed griffin guzzling blood , fresh breathing blood. That is the grief my
patriotic crave became. We were two mothers who buffeted brows on the
jagged face of an arroyo averring to shape-shift to tiger-faced
cyclones & skate after our Moscow-based daughters who heaved
roots into exile till they inverse to the biome of beginning.
Vershima – the daughter who threw her Nigerian name into the belly of an ocean
& gave herself the name extracted from the country dancing in the mouth
of war, your co-nomad, succumbed to the furnace her mother placed on
her tongue , flied home in eagle-shaped glider with her kids,
Olimpiada & Yelizaveta. After a jubilant throng spewed dances mirroring
lateral undulation, shared brunch smelling like milk mined from Iyenge, in
honor of the wealth that reached home , cow people , cow elves parted the
hedges , gilded into Yeletewa , tucked two hundred people in jaws of preening
hooks & drew stars & crescents on a boulevard’s face with blood & blasted
skulls. Russia did not butcher our daughter, it was home that plunged Vershima
into catacomb… it’s home that grinded our foreign buds to potshards .
Doshima, I raise my hands in submission remain in the foreign realm , coming
home is now a journey into the throat of leviathan . Home
has stepped into the mouth of coffin. Benue is burning . Part my lips
with hurricane & tuck razor blades in my throat if i hurtle
after you again.