He was a blooming acacia in the desert wasteland that fed me life.
Brown limbs shooting far and wide poisoned every crevice of my shrivelled epicentre with love.
The gentle breeze and blazing heat extolled his virtues.
Adorning him with sweet smelling pom-poms which ferried me back twenty years.
To the era of sand castles and Aunty Bilkisu’s raw honey mixed into our breakfast pap.
When the earth cracked from under us, thirsting for blood, I learned fortitude from his steadiness. Verily, with every hardship comes ease.
Saints, allow me eulogize my lover. I was genie and his desires were master.
Allah’s vicegerent ordered ghusl and sixty days of fasting.
Sikiratu, he said, face turned away like I was fresh excreta, the baby in your womb came from zina—one of the worst sins.
In our Khulthum’s mouth, two tiny teeth sprout from premature gums.
I am Pa and Ma. Teacher and Playmate. Beginning and End.
Do I confess that a vengeful revenant poured venom into her father’s heart?
He is on my lips and my breasts.
On the red cushions and naked wardrobe.
In this place where he really truly lived, only an echo remains.
Nothing is crueller than crushing silence.
Love has made a mad woman of me.
She who stakes claim may try to sponge my stripes but he will remember.
I am hope.
Like streaks of light dancing through darkness, welcoming dawn.
I am the cackling dance of mother hen around well-fed chicks.
Scented grains of sand quenching their thirst in a storm.
I am joy and laughter uninhibited.
A scarlet letter is just that ... alphabet on cloth.
I am his heaven from her hell.