I Am Still Singing The Song That Got Lost Crossing The Atlantic

I
Etaha

On the third morning
after forgetting my grandmother’s voice,
I woke up with salt
in my mouth & a rooster’s scream
sitting between my ribs.
They say time moves forward,
but I have seen it circle the same wound
like a god choking on prayers—every blessing stalled, every promise barbed.

In the veranda,
I watch ants carry the same crumb
they hawked yesterday.
Or was it tomorrow?
The air smelled of rain and memory—
both heavy, & unsure of arrival.

II
Edemetaha

In the marketplace,
a woman sold oranges with skins
like scorched prayer books.
She looked at me like she knew my grandfather’s real name;
the one buried under three wars and a stolen census.

You’re early, she said.
Or maybe you’re late.
The difference didn’t matter.
I carried the fruit home
like colonization in a dress.
Peeled it. It bled. Ate it naked.

III
Fiongetok

Don’t you see it,
history is a mouthful of fractured teeth
through which we attempt a smile?
The Sunca radios whisper coups
in tongues indomie-generation children do not speak.

We build homes on bones &
call them foundations.
We call the ghosts patrons.
We dance because standing
still makes the earth too loud.

IV
Edereobo

At night,
I dreamt of the god
who kept resetting the world,
like a child ignorant of consequence.

In the dream,
I asked him what he wanted.
He said, To be believed.
I said, Try harder.

V
Obo

And still—I plant yams.
Still—I laugh.
Still—I boil water
even when the cold is meant to mother my grief. Still—I love someone
who believes in leaving the door unlocked,
just in case the ancestors come hungry.

We were taught to bow,
but my spine has grown crooked
with resistance.
Some mornings, I kiss the sun
on both cheeks, just to remind it:
I am still here.
I am still dangerous.
I am still singing the song
that got lost crossing the Atlantic.