The same thing we do to a cigarette we do to memories as well: Throughout the night we let it burn, Then flatten it under our shoes when we rise.
We watched the street that winds past the empty clatter in our parlours, towards the glaze of cars at the end of sight, roads reduced to a hyphen.
The wind carried fresh news of death. Televisions lit in their living rooms, where candles once wept to the ground, casting silhouettes behind the awnings.
Sudden rain wept and darkness strangled the moon. The darkness shone bright in children's eyes. For denizens like us to find our roots from the square, we summoned memory from our fingertips.
Blindness walked us past the bakeries, sniffing past the Foursquare Church. Then, the aisle of ignorance opened before us: a two way street of dust and midden, in a country that enjoyed its corpses.
Children like flies were drawn to the corpses of Nissan, Honda and Beetles -- on the windscreens they wrote words the rain would wash -- installed on Water Street like mannequins. The hibiscus hedges closed shop at 6.
So we painted our tongues blue to swallow pills for all we needed to lose and remember. And held the bowl of our tummies when they shook, like the ground rolling with thunder. On the awnings, the crooning pigeons fed. On the balcony, a cigar settled the worms.
The sun would meet us while we were there: Writing our names on the side of a building
or how else would we be remembered? We leave a house as if nothing has ever been said, through a door that opens and closes with thirst.
Rabiu writes from Lagos. Visar has either appeared or soon appearing on isacoustic press, Merak Magazine, Riggwelter, Picaroon Poetry, Nightingale & Sparrow, kalahari review, African Writer, on the Gerald Kraak Anthology, Amethyst Review etc. Twitter: rabiutemidayo.