Inner me

Mother’s woven baskets criss cross like the condemned path I chose, my body settles as fermented palm wine trapped in a drunkards keg.
Mother calls me cursed because farm work to me is metaphor for digging my grave, she calls me unchaste because no suitor suits my taste and inept since the smell of my Efòriro churns her stomach .
OJo my brother knows nothing of the colour of wood or texture of soil yet Mother hails him. She tames me possessed by rebellion, I tell her to make peace with rebellion because her real enemy is the inner me.


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