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!