May I Not Return the Same Way I Came
by Diepreye Amanah
after Gregory Pardlo
I was born head first on a Thursday night into the burn
of a kerosene lantern, its shy flame sighing my name.
I was born blinking at the glint of fireflies, fast rats lazing
inside stew pots, croaking choir of drunk uncles at wake ceremonies,
the occasional sunshower. I was born a number
among fervent eyes: children thick-coated in Vaseline – polish
for feeble limbs poverty feasts on, poverty familiar as the savor
of fresh butter bread at breakfast. I was born to red clay roads,
King James Versions, yellow mangoes, swarms of cheerful mosquitoes,
salt on doorsteps and room corners, moonlight playdates, onion juice squeezed
into the eyes of a convulsing infant, all your neighbors’ secrets,
no pet cats – they house witches’ spirits, naked husband and wife
fighting in the streets. I was born wise and superstitious: never blow a whistle
in hot afternoon sun, snakes will creep out the bushes to attack you.
I was born shoulders-steady ready for unexpected burdens:
the biggest: I was born. I was born to our green and white flag,
booming music at 1:00 AM from the corner motel, yellowed-armpits
of teenage boys’ shirts, pawpaw trees, crude oil, polluted water,
cassava farms, palm oil, plantains, six families to one bathroom.
I was born on the east edge of a canal, the wooden bridge across
flimsy as our trust in government, driving us farther to the feet of faith.
We all—market women, lawyers, wife-beaters, adulterers, politicians,
drug addicts, housewives—were born as Nigeria, into churches, mosques,
shrines, synagogues, with one song on our lips, a prayer, a supplication:
May we not return the same way we came.