I did not beg to be born a Nigerian.
In fact, I begged to not be born at all,
It was my father, feeling funny, filled and full.
So, like a madman at a funeral, I came, yet no food.
A place I feel too short to stand tall.
… my formative years: they had no form even.
Dad fed nine with just a thousand and thirty
He died with my future in the hands of Mansard.
His hair turned quite gold from grief.
Thereafter, came the promise of gratuity:
A gratitude we owed by Nigeria for his servitude.
It’s being two and ten seasons now.
We are yet to see a grain to gnaw.
“You’ve never bought textbooks,” was Teacher Ann’s retort.
Does she know?
The rust and dust of life teaches all the wisdom there is…
Even the faint lantern in our house begs to be put out
Such was the richness, and nobi mouth
Father said, “Always shield this steel of brass—”
It empties more than it fills.
All I have now—this thin sheet of grass.
How do I make more garments with no ripped seams?
They don’t know my fear…
I’m afraid of scaring fear.
For fear it would fear me.