An immigrant’s prayer
If the ocean swallows me today,
let it be known that I fought for my country,
I bared myself, wringing her off of every water,
leaving her out to dry
in the cold harmattan.
Let my soul take refuge in imagined cities,
filled with mosaics hanging above its walls
and the flickering lights at night and
salt bread and mashed potatoes.
Not drowning in my tears
before the rising turbulent
takes the leftovers of my body.
And if the universe pleases,
may she grant me passage to this place,
where I might call home,
may our broken vessel in these turbulent waters
fight for us who have lost hope and give us peace.
***
I am outgrowing my friends
10 years has passed,
a decade of experiences
10 new borders, faces,
people and my old friends
are spiralling in the image
of what I was before.
30 minutes on Monday morning,
I clutched the phone in my palm
explaining to one why
I no longer eat “ugba”*
How I prefer the ease of
pouring boiling water into
a cup, letting tea bags melt
to release its flavours.
— Familiar things are a trap,
it is obsessed with guilt.
Wednesday, I will fall out with
my mother on why I no longer
confess my sins to a priest.
__ Religion plays funny games with hope.
promising but in the face of trouble it disappears.
I am outgrowing my old self,
Friday, I discovered I no longer
sit with shame.
I am now audacious.
Sprawled naked on ‘le lit’**
with foreign men in an orgy.
*“Ugba” is the local word for African oil bean seed among the Igbos of Nigeria
**“Le Lit” is a French word meaning “the bed”
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