God, bring me home — if only in my sleep.
Maitama. Or Garki. Somewhere near my lover’s mouth.
I’ve sinned to stay warm, lied
and even been unkind,
But still I want to come home.

God, bring me home — I need the noise and heat.
The sound of my father hissing at the traffic light.
I long to see the woman on my street
huff and puff and ask me things she already knows.
“Shey na abroad dey make you glow like this?”

In London, everything seems grey,
then red and white.
Sometimes a blue so pale it really is just grey.
Here, I’ve forgotten how to speak my name.

The bus leaves just as I arrive.
I lie in bed through the call to prayers.
I miss all the milestones at home,
and I’ve started to laugh at all the things
I never even used to find funny.

God, bring me home —
if only in my sleep or scent, or dreams,
through the smell of my mother’s stew,
or the cackle of my brother’s laugh.
My homeland lives in this ache in my chest.

God, bring me home —
Even if I leave again by morning.

 

 

 

 

 

Photo by Baqeer Gashua on Unsplash