cartographies

February 13, 2016

twice in a week, i die in a therapist’s room— with my grandmother;

in my everyday, dying has marked itself in the cuts on my wrists and the

hurt in my heart.

mother: that’s some white girl nonsense, drop it.

 

and:

in the cartographies of what was, what shall be and what should’ve been,

i have become fictional, inventing a story of who i was,

because i can no longer be who i was, is or shall be.

 

i exist in the cracks of feet of toiling women in Burundi and

the wrinkles on faces of hausa men pleading with camels in slaughter

houses in Sokoto, Kano and Kaduna.

 

***

 

on my grandmother’s grave, my body shall return,

to me.


 

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