I died in Seville. The stone remembers.
They buried me under the cathedral floor
where gold from my father’s debt still sweats
through the mortar. Four hundred years of damp.

I came back through Lagos heat, no passport.
Customs asked for my declaration form.
I said: _I am the goods._ They laughed,
stamped my palm with ink that won’t come off.

My name now is Mr. Receipt.
I carry it folded in my breast pocket
with the invoice for six million bodies.
VAT unpaid. Compound interest.

In Ibadan I found the cocoa trees
my great-grandmother planted before the ships.
They still fruit. Bitter. Black pods split
like skulls when the harmattan hits.

The bank says I have no collateral
except this memory of chains.
I offered them the cathedral.
They said: _We don’t do repossessions in Spain._

So I work. I count. I sign my name
on every wall I build. Each brick
a witness statement. Each doorway
a border I already crossed.

My children ask why I flinch at bells.
Same bronze. Same tongue. Different sermon.
The iron forgives. The iron keeps score.
I pay in concrete. I pay in silence.

On Tuesdays I pour water at the junction
for the ones still in transit. No names.
Just the debt of being returned without luggage.
The stone in Seville is lighter now.
One brick’s worth. I feel it here,
under my ribs. A small cathedral
rebuilding itself in my chest.

 

 

 

 

Photo by Steve Sullivant on Unsplash