Sometimes I write pain
Sometimes I write tears
Sometimes I write remembered fear
Sometimes I write powerlessness
Sometimes I write the trauma that lives in my bones
Sometimes I write the shadows in my soul
Sometimes I write wounding memories etched deeply on my brain
So sometimes I write in blood.
Sometimes I write the sounds of bullets,
Sometimes I write the blood and brains on the roads
Sometimes I write walking past the blood soaked mattress that carried his bullet-ridden body
Sometimes I write the months that mattress sat outside the Health Centre,
Sometimes I write smelling boli and groundnut
Smelling the stench of warm faeces wafting from behind the bushes of PG Hall
Sometimes I write with screaming in my ears.
Screams merging in my head,
While the other me huddles in the dark
Closing her ears to the sounds running feet, the sounds of trampled bodies
Sometimes I can still see the cotton wool pushed into his nose and his ears,
Sometimes I write his mortuary blackened skin
Sometimes I still see his feet sticking out of the coffin,
Throughout the service, his feet sticking out of the undersized coffin
He was over six feet tall, soft spoken, his life stolen from him in a moment
In another moment his phone
So sometimes I write in blood
Sometimes I write with the fumes of teargas choking out my breath
Sometimes I write gasping for air
Sometimes I write holding the bullet that split his skull
His blood bursting forth, drenching his shirt, dead before he even touched the ground
Sometimes I write the columns of smoke that heralded the death of hundreds…
Hundreds travelling from Ibadan who never saw home again,
Sometimes i write the wails of the dirges of candlelit processions
How many candlelight processions for dead students can YOU survive?
I survived them all, at least some of me did.
So sometimes I write in blood.
Sometimes I write his body arching through the air
I never knew his name,
but between Abuja and Abaji I saw his body break beneath a speeding bus
Sometimes I write through a hazy smoke-filled gaze
From Modakeke to Ife, from Offa to Erinle
Sometimes I write a thousand burnt houses
Sometimes I write through the sleepless night
Sometimes I write the fear keeping me awake
How many home invasions can YOU survive?
Sometimes I write her.
Sometimes I write her body, this prison which is all you see
Sometimes I write her pain,
Sometimes I write the death of her soul,
Sometimes I write the husk left behind,
Sometimes I write the feet that trample over her,
Sometimes I write the hands that touch her, unwanted, unbidden,
Sometimes I write the hands that strike her,
Sometimes I write the hands that are meant to love her,
Sometimes I write her oppression, I write her forced smile,
Sometimes I write her
But we survive.
A part of us survives.
So sometimes
Sometimes I write
I write
I write in blood
Sometimes I write in blood
So that someday, sometime I can write her freedom.
I want to write our freedom.
