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We’ve learned how to die. Each. In a unique splendor. Like, my father who died walking with his head down and legs up. His face was blood stained and smiling. He must have thought himself funny. Boom. That was the sound of the American certified polished pistol he got from only God knows where. It must be that. The whole room laughed. He died almost the way he came. The new trend. My brother died at the age of three. He played with his mates outside for long and then cried, passed out a hot piss and fell with his face hitting the ground. My sister who was married a year ago, took in. We drank Hennessy and Champagne. She walked down to the labor room jugging on her hands and cussing her paternal grandmother for leaving the world before her birth. Push. She screamed: is it coming? And died hoping to have a boy. Mother, is far gone from the scene. She’s gonna smoke all up packets of Amsterdam. Drink liquor to stupor. She can’t breathe no more. Sure. She will bury herself. She always did. We’ve learned how to die. Each. In a unique splendor. Like, me as I am. I will look through the window. Call at an owl’s house, say hello and sleep.

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About the Author:

Portrait - ArinzechukwuAkpa Arinzechukwu is a Nigerian born photographer and poet. His works have appeared or will feature on Eastlit, Kalahari Review, Poetry life and Times, and elsewhere.

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