Zaria, Rainy Season, 1996. I am crouched beneath the concrete ironing slabs, almost a cube without two sides, adjoining the bath hall twenty boys had..
it begins with herdsmen asking for our farms, fields & our fathers’ graves, green with the milk of meat. this night, I toss my blankets,..
At the interface between earth and mute space, between form and void, is glass. * ..
at yaba there’s a part of you loitering on every streets, in stranger’s houses, on the faces of everyone you meet there’s the granny’s box..
Here I bring my camels to the waterer. Look, you write these poems too close to your heart I have been, all morning, trying to..
from the very first breath, life begins to chisel us, and carves us into the bodies we become at the last draw. when we were..
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