This Place We Call Home | Nweke Benard Okechukwu

Sometimes I wish to peep into the potter's palms, 

to know where hue dusts forms. To know if though 

black dust moulds. I had carved a caveat note thick 

on my forehead. Please take it as a forewarning;

"Do not come here a black boy & if you may, 

may you not come over to my home".

Here, feuds make serfs weak & wherewithal at the 

mercy of brigands. What we seem to be, not what we are. 

& what we are is not what we seem to be. We are 

blindfolded to agree that toads are luscious pastrami. 

& the best way to feast on them is to be laid as an egg

in the filthy pond. To metamorphose into frogs, to croak,

& jump like them. Yesteryears, we were firelord, burning 

our own crappy capital. Today, we watercourses chaos towards

our suburbs. Other times, we are tremulous agenda skittering 

nowhere like punctured balloon in the wind. In this place,

there is no particular riff for survival. When it rains,

dance in the rain until your feet tears & scars heals.

When it blazes, stroll in the sun until your shadow becomes

thick & taller than Burj Khalifa. That is to say; 

this is the lodestar of a mapless home like ours.

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Bio. Nweke Benard Okechukwu is a budding Nigerian writer. He passionately writes from experience using the environment as a writing tool. His other creative works are forthcoming in other issues. Music is his best companion.