I’m in a blue-lighted room,
full of everything the clergyman says
will be lost in the cold embrace of flame —
grass, gin, nudity.
Snaking in through the window
is the voice of a woman on a megaphone
saying I am next to be burned.
The عاهرة meant to lead me to hell
offers me heaven instead, on seeing that I am not there.
She asks how much she can buy my thoughts;
I reply, I thought she was the one selling.
She shows the ivories in her mouth,
and extracts ‘God’ from my mouth,
as something inside me folds like kankara,
and she draws me into the lacuna that separates us.
I melt into her like fura dan nunu
dissolving in searing heat.
In here, I think: isn’t it foolish
to be lonely like a desert,
to be still as water even though you’re turning to ash,
something the world calls being a man.
My eyes turn into the Pacific.
She swears she’s never seen a man
be so human, not a pretence of what he’s meant to be,
especially in a دعارة بيت.
A man they say must lead,
but here I am, led by a woman.
Maybe in this dance of souls,
we don’t need leaders.
Glossary
In this poem, the Arabic script عاهرة translates and is pronounced as ‘Aaheera’
which means ‘Harlot.’ ‘Kankara’ is a Hausa word for millipede and ‘fura dan nunu’
is a Hausa diary meal made of millet and condensed fresh milk. And the
Arabic script دعارة بيت. translates into ‘whorehouse.’
*First published in the journal, “Brittle Paper”
*First published in the journal “Poetik City Africa”
