Mother is a praying hand & a spitting tongue of fire. Her knees have become tree roots after endless hours of being buried in the earth. Her face ashy red from the nonstop incense burning. She spits fire from her tongue, sending them to the devils lurking around. The devil that I think I am but which she doesn’t know. I imagine myself rolling on a brown wooden glass. A rumbling thunder spinning me into a ball of dough. I imagine the dough being kneaded & pounded & tossed into a bowl of hot oil, burning under the flame from Mother’s tongue. I imagine myself turning into snack everyone wants but me. A delicious bread, coming out the way it’s meant to be but not how I want it to be. I imagine myself being pulled into an ocean of sticky saliva on a spaceship with hands. The walls of the ocean red, with white rocks grinding the flesh I’ve worn. I imagine myself as a mangled grub going down a dark hot tunnel, sinking deeper into someone I’m not. I imagine myself reaching a curly room with spiralling staircase, valleys & ridges. A bitter taste painting its walls. I imagine myself going down a thin round opening, pressed into a soft mesh, different from the way I was and different from the way I wish to be. I imagine myself descending into a dark hole, with the smell of the earth. I imagine myself turning to sand, mixing with the earth, birthing maggots from my flesh. I imagine my imagination becoming real & me becoming lost.
About the Writer:
Theophilus Sokuma is a Nigerian. He loves the smell of books and ink and currently resides in Lagos, Nigeria. He has past works published in Praxis Magazine and African Writers Magazine. You can find him on Instagram @amante_del_dios
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