SQN - Sine Qua Non - Issue 1 - Journal - Page 116
in the bar. But I know the man who
once handed me my grandpa’s
snuffbox, & said: this is what the
war has left of him. All my life, I
have been searching for the key
instead of the door. & what hurts
is when you realize that that which
you call a home is a way home. My
fears are the moon of my night. &
I can remember the cry of a baby boy
who was named after war. His name,
Agha. I remember Moju powder
scattered all over our faces like an
unskilled piece of painting. Crunchy
squares of cabin biscuits between
our jaws crushing into ruins. A girl's
lips inside mine at a corner of the
house, when no one was watching.
But, I do not remember my house
in Lagos. I used to jump over fences
& never got caught. & I kept running.
I do not remember the songs. Neither
the voices. Nor my face in the old
family photo album. This I remember,
in the middle of the war, I tossed
my face into rainwater to discolour
the bloodstains in the white of my
eyes. And, when I arose the war was
already over. & I heard the songs
echoing in my ear drum. The birds
sang them every morning.
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