Hunting For A Shoulder
Christtie Jay
After the news
I walk from city to city
searching for you
and the familiar décor of Lagos
—your city—
to slap to dust
the grief that has permeated
but of course
only your stupid voice fighting
for the last piece of chicken is here
with the stupidity of our youth
which now seems very obvious.
That I took classes to be a good slave
learned three languages
before my mother tongue
in my mother’s country
and never once stopped
my hands from greed
or digging
that I refused the yellow buses
stealing my blues
and feeding me company
even when they begged to,
and thinking the darkness
was only here
put my hands to burying
our city
when I should’ve been on my knees
in thanksgiving celebrating our sun
in owning a darkness
with hands and aunties and neighbours
who knew our names
who,
under the right weather
would give out their shoulders
for soiling.
After the news
I walk from city to city
searching for you
and the familiar décor of Lagos
—your city—
to slap to dust
the grief that has permeated
but of course
only your stupid voice fighting
for the last piece of chicken is here
with the stupidity of our youth
which now seems very obvious.
That I took classes to be a good slave
learned three languages
before my mother tongue
in my mother’s country
and never once stopped
my hands from greed
or digging
that I refused the yellow buses
stealing my blues
and feeding me company
even when they begged to,
and thinking the darkness
was only here
put my hands to burying
our city
when I should’ve been on my knees
in thanksgiving celebrating our sun
in owning a darkness
with hands and aunties and neighbours
who knew our names
who,
under the right weather
would give out their shoulders
for soiling.