After that call in which I chorused ‘Mother, live’

The neighbour I despised loves to go with the wind:
what comes from your mouth must drop in her ears
before anyone knows what it was. I say I despise her.

But on that night, she asked who I wanted to stay
a while with, and hold sword to wrestle grief.
I said I was talking to my mother. And she gifted

my wishes a mouthful of amen. A pinch of the hatred
I had for her melted into dew on my tongue.
There was this curiosity dozing in her iris. So, I opened

myself into a pool, a place to bury the fire in her.
A step closer to me broke her voice into questions.
Say her name. Kudiratu? Helen? Idowu?

I shrieked: Brigitte is her name. She began a language
I do not understand. But it was her god she seeks.
Perhaps, she was expecting a slice of the miracle

she thought had awoken my mother on her tongue.
She’d thought paradise is here.
Perhaps I lied; my mother never died.

The young woman began humming a song
the kind sang during last rites to reflect hope
in the heart of mourners – friends and foes.

I planted half of my hatred for her
and asked if she could amplify her voice,
so I could join in the solemnity of survival.