What it means when a man falls from the sky.
What shall I render unto you/ this burnt body/ I meant offering/ sorry what difference does it make though/ I haven’t been existing/ talk less of living/ I am sorry I am the kind of woman you can have/ only in death/ what do men mean when they say till death do us apart/ isn’t that the reason why words like this exist/ Necrophilia/ I am sorry/ I am becoming too apologetic/ this is because I am six feet under in grave/ there is no hell/ no heaven/ just too much gnashing of my teeth and people filled with regret/ I am sorry I can only make you come/ when am too close to finding the gates of heaven/ I am sorry you couldn’t have me/ but I was too busy making myself come with the kind of poems I write/ and when I come/ I squirt/ this cup/ that is this body/ is full/ running over
Do you know how difficult it is to talk about the day your own city dragged you by the hair? ….pass the burning torsos erected on poles like flag?
You are Nigerian / until you are not/ until a man / cuts down your father/ and rapes your mother/ till death does her apart
You are an orphan/ and you learn to say the Lord’s Prayer/ in Yoruba far from your homeland / and then you are/ nothing/ a girl whose thumb is as small as a baby points at the tribal mark/ on your cheek/ she swears you are Yoruba/ yes you are
No/ you are not sure until your uncle comes to claim you from the refugee camp/ your uncle is Igbo/ and his wife has the skin of a/ flaked god and like all foreign gods/ she too leaves for her snow flaked country with you along/ so you are Nigerian all over again/ until you are at the border/ and the immigration officer questions your identity/ and somehow shows you a country with a map/ of half a yellow sun/ your mother is Igbo /the flaked god aunt asserts you pass the border /and you don’t remember what’s stamped on your visa/ you are too young/ until you are not too young/ until you get fucked by a guy who ponders too much about your/ black skin and now you are colored/ and you tell colored girls’ story/ and write poems on broken bottles/ then you are a Northerner/ all over again when your teacher asks you to write about yourself/ until they force you to remember why you carry your hair in Afro then you become African again/ and you remember you have a visa/ but you bring out your visa and find out you have no identity/ and you are nothing/ again
Ejiro Elizabeth Edward is a poet, writer and a passionate lover of the arts. She has been published in Pangolin review, Praxis magazine and Kalahari Review. She is a regular contributor in Afri-diaspora and recently started redefining herself seeing that writing/art is probably her only way of living while she battles with depression or insomnia.
She spends her free time reading, modeling and traveling. She is currently an undergraduate of the University of Benin in Nigeria. Instagram- Diasporapoetry, Facebook- Ejiro Edward, Twitter- @ejiroedward552, email- firstname.lastname@example.org