I was trying to present a history of feelings, not the history of the war itself… Svetlana
Alexievich. Granta magazine
Shoes? No ! .
Tennis shoes? No !
Track shoes? . Yes!
I spend my whole life running a race I never wanted in the first place.
My body stretched as a pole, transitioning between the living & dead. In my dream, bodies are
piled upon bodies while a Red Sea floods the street & flows into the gutter.
One of the bodies rises from the dead and my body pantomimes in response to the miracle,
dry bones are waking up,
but there is a horror , slammed to this boy’s face, in his hands there is a flag & he stretches them out and he questions me ;
“What do you do with a country that is breathing
fire?”, my lips depart from each other and I say “Run” but before I do, the boy before me
whose body is too transparent for flesh dissolves into water, water turns into blood, in my
country everything you love must surely die.
I awake to plot my escape, I have been awake my whole life plotting an escape, call me rapunzel
with the thick hair. I have dissolved my allegiance to the green passport, a land full of green grass but I have been grazing on weed for so long, I can’t stay if I tried, people say the devil you know is better than but this devil is cruel, leaves us crawling in blood of ourselves, of loved
ones, of us standing on the grounds of a toll gate shot at . This devil is cruel, this devil is cruel won’t allow Lazarus to dip water into our throats suffocates our toiling, nothing grows here. I planted a cactus in my room placed it by the sun and watered it for ; it died at the 12th month.
I couldn’t mourn it, I was too busy mourning the spilled blood of my cousin by a man who
pledged his life to protect him.
I am done with this shit hole, what hell could be worse than here?.
I do not seek your permission to leave people pause and question my tongue, the mistake of a
nurse blesses my pronunciation mistake me for Ghanaian, for American for anything else but Nigerian.