Paper Prose

On Mimi’s 19 th birthday she got a pen. Her Uncle said it was a symbol of hope, to help her to aspire to achieving great things. She thought it was ironic that the person who could have paid for her education, but always came up with an excuse each term a school semester began, could give her such a gift. As if her were mocking her, as if he were saying, “I might not be able to pay for your schooling, but here’s a pen, I tried didn’t I?” How foolish. His first child, her cousin, Mabel, had gotten into University that year. Maybe if her mother was not dead, she wouldn't even be living in this hell of a house. She never knew her father- all she knew was that he was an Urhobo man- her mother used to say, “Urhobo-wayo do not trust any of them”. She wished her mother had taken her own advice in the first place. Mimi won’t be here living such a shitty life. She didn’t even know whether the man was still alive, her mother had kept mum about him throughout her life. Growing

HOW CAN I EXPLAIN THE JOY OF our first meeting to one whose feet have not touched the soft grass of the dry savannah? Laila your name on my lips Bids the harshest of Harmattans  on my cool skin goodbye Like the magic of warm liquids over the cough-strained voice In a child's throat Laila will you unwrap your hijab for me like a rose unfurling its scarlet petals to catch the rays of the morning sun After a long lonely night? I am a man of many travels And a thousand flowers  My eyes have beheld But none like my Jabdarii Your rebuff is like a knife to my gut What seeks your heart in a man? I may not be the Sultan but I have cows and fields Nor an Alhaji but I'm pious Laila, Laila Your hennaed hands call to me In my night visions Laila is the tauraro arewa that guides me back home