My mother is a tree, dried up by the Harmattan wind
that blows through our family.
She sways, making the dust leap into the air like dancing figurines,
angels drunk on the praises of men.
As I dance, she reaches out to steady me.
Freyah, don’t go slipping on your tongue.
Don’t ask why father won’t come out to play.
What is an only child lying on the altar,
burnt over with years of sacrifice, saying I do?
Who will hear words when they take up wings
singing away their meanings?
My mother is the tree of life,
I taste my destiny in her and know I will be fruitful.
As I dance, I feel my roots reaching out to steady me.
I hear those birds in my head singing, I do, I do.
I see him not come out to play. I see me.
I’m blind. I can no longer see my mother.
I am the tree, I am the collector of dust.