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.
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,