Fog

The last time we spoke,
Kano was covered in a film of dust, and our quarrels
sent waves crashing against our balcony.
A butterfly flickered past. I reached for your hands
like my world was ending in a few.
The harmattan lifted.

And my fingers are coated with dust.

Splashing

It’s that time of the year when birds
fly eastwards to be loved.
You leave at the first sun.
The new chilliness stings my face raw.
And time burns holes through your pressed lips.
We don’t have all night
to see in the shade of the fog.
Come fall, the trees will knee.
Rivers splashing in agreement
Think of me as your hills and valleys
Or the shallow-winged bird waiting for your return.

Peaceful Practice

Another mob converged over a migrant and retreated,
and a body lay on the hot street of Zungeru,
a feast for crows and vultures…