VISITS
By Emmanuella Chisom James
you visit family after two, three, five, fifteen years.
we both know you should have built that mountain of hope
out of cotton wool instead, so when they listed ever so casually,
fifteen new ways in which you had become ugly,
you could have landed softly.
what they mean when they say that is:
they do not appreciate the sun painting you.
trying to explain you were always this colour is a waste.
they say the added kilograms do not suit your frame.
of course you cannot begin to explain the depression,
or the comfort food gave
or that after-still-birth delivery is not an appealing look.
you were stupid to think
that after all these years they would change,
that they would welcome you with hugs and the home-cooked
jollof you craved.
you visit family after two, three, five, fifteen years.
we both know you should have built that mountain of hope
out of cotton wool instead, so when they listed ever so casually,
fifteen new ways in which you had become ugly,
you could have landed softly.
what they mean when they say that is:
they do not appreciate the sun painting you.
trying to explain you were always this colour is a waste.
they say the added kilograms do not suit your frame.
of course you cannot begin to explain the depression,
or the comfort food gave
or that after-still-birth delivery is not an appealing look.
you were stupid to think
that after all these years they would change,
that they would welcome you with hugs and the home-cooked
jollof you craved.
PANIC (GO AND PASS YOUR EXAM)
the sun is up and i am freezing,
the waft of charcoal air the boli woman blows my way does nothing to heat me up / certainly not the laughter of the free street kids can warm my heart / though i cannot help but pause momentarily from self-pity to curve my nostrils away from the stench they carry along with their giggles / my feet are moving on their own accord / my hands stiff beneath my armpit struggling to draw fresh life instead of the intense shivering it has relapsed to.
my current panic mode- the result of the thought of failing / my body is clothed in my check uniform/found myself on the lap of a stranger in a keke napep / my mother will scold me once i return home because i have forgotten the change she worked so hard to squeeze into my little hands/ i forgot, i forgot, i am sorry / now i am sweating, burning as if i am the boli the woman heartlessly roasts to almost resemble the coal stones beneath.
something pokes me beneath my skirt and i imagine it is the little stick the woman holds / prodding to see if i am ready to be given away and eaten / but no. instead it is the rod between the man's legs i am sitting on / his act of kindness i finally realize is not at all free/but i cannot scream at the driver to stop nor tell him i want a seat of my own because i have no money with me /so i pray in my spirit that the man realizes i am not ready / not ready to be given away and touched.
we have reached / the driver tells me / i step out without a word / the driver, passengers including the 'kind' man zoom off / it is time / i am fifteen minutes late / frozen and burning /go and pass your exam / those were the only words my father said to me / so now i must go and pass my exam.
the waft of charcoal air the boli woman blows my way does nothing to heat me up / certainly not the laughter of the free street kids can warm my heart / though i cannot help but pause momentarily from self-pity to curve my nostrils away from the stench they carry along with their giggles / my feet are moving on their own accord / my hands stiff beneath my armpit struggling to draw fresh life instead of the intense shivering it has relapsed to.
my current panic mode- the result of the thought of failing / my body is clothed in my check uniform/found myself on the lap of a stranger in a keke napep / my mother will scold me once i return home because i have forgotten the change she worked so hard to squeeze into my little hands/ i forgot, i forgot, i am sorry / now i am sweating, burning as if i am the boli the woman heartlessly roasts to almost resemble the coal stones beneath.
something pokes me beneath my skirt and i imagine it is the little stick the woman holds / prodding to see if i am ready to be given away and eaten / but no. instead it is the rod between the man's legs i am sitting on / his act of kindness i finally realize is not at all free/but i cannot scream at the driver to stop nor tell him i want a seat of my own because i have no money with me /so i pray in my spirit that the man realizes i am not ready / not ready to be given away and touched.
we have reached / the driver tells me / i step out without a word / the driver, passengers including the 'kind' man zoom off / it is time / i am fifteen minutes late / frozen and burning /go and pass your exam / those were the only words my father said to me / so now i must go and pass my exam.
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BIO:
Emmanuella Chisom James, 19, is a student of Babcock University. A recipient of national awards such as the Writinggamesng by the University of Sussex. Her poem The Rise of the Orphans was longlisted for the Humanitarian poetry prize in 2018 and her satire appeared on We Arose Anthology in 2020. Social media handles Instagram : @chisoooooom Twitter : @chisoooooom |
