In Lagos, bodies roam with worries on their tails
like predators after their prey.
In hawking sachets of water, every sweat that drops traces a line
back to the absence of a father.
At nine, most nights lead me to a road opposite home,
when the mothers wrap themselves in the cloak of strange men’s bodies.
My brother wraps weed, the colour of his teeth between his lips
& with every puff, he forgets how to plant happiness
& watch it grow like bamboo.
