Dear Father,

I attempt our English grammar lessons

every evening, as the sun sets,

but syntax was long lost to the

shattering sound of gunshots,

no more concord exists,

between the echoes of this longing

and razor-sharp precision of machetes.

You were my angel

cut down for defending his own,

my hopes melted in a blinding fire

that rid me of home, hearth and peace.

I knew not where we were taken,

what nightfall had not blanketed from view,

teardrops ensured I did not see.

Still, my will refused to be broken,

impassive, no torture would undo me,

but the mind is sometimes

impotent before matter.

The body did not break, responding

to its own rhythm, it chose to swell

instead, like soil after ploughing.

I came undone, as new life blossomed in me.

I sought an exit; like Talatu who

jumped off the truck when they moved

us across camps, like Fanna who breathed

her last, unable to expel her baby.

Death refused my many supplications,

I birthed Shehu, the colour of midnight, like his father,

with curly hair and quiet eyes like you, father.

This is my certificate in lieu of SSCE,

how do I hate what I love so fiercely?

Soldiers set us free,

but we pay the price for this freedom

in a currency minted with bits of sanity.

Father, your people avoid me like contagion,

no longer your daughter,

I am touted a killer's wife,

my fruit labelled BH gene.

I can neither shield him nor teach confidence

when parents keep their children away.

Like fragile fabric,

coming neatly undone at the seams,

I am held apprehensive by allure

of cough syrup and tram.

Sanity is a high escape

from this stigma

gradually

squeezing

my will

to live.