like the night before,

i crawled under our bed,

from where i watched them;

cut my brother’s arms,

smash my father’s testicles,

plant iron seeds in mama’s thighs

& left me a glass of fresh milk.

that night, death was with me

& he began to teach me how to live.

he dipped his finger in the spilt blood

& let the droplet cool my tongue,

for i was like the burning bush-

ablaze but unburnt.

see, memories are paintbrushes

they choose the colour of our minds,

& stain the mud walls of our hu(r)ts

when dipped in the shrieks of a dying boy.

so last night when the door creaked again

i quietened my heart & listened.

but there were no hoarse voices.

no gunshots. no cow mows. nothing!

just that creak and a huge figure

with glowing eyes entered. It was God!

Photo by lalesh aldarwish from Pexels