I am swarthy, swarthier than Udogwugwu’s impassive
countenance. Every night I lie, like a green
snake skulking its predator’s sward-surrounded purlieus,
in apprehensive anticipation of day.
My hazel eyes are Granny’s snuff store;
my nasal bore Ojadili’s fetish-flute.
Little children can, for firewood, fetch
my gnarled legs.
My visage is bumpy,
with a visual contortion here,
a nasal distortion there,
and lips protruding like a shrew’s.
My hips may not be amphora-rounded,
but it’s a hip all the same,
as it never
fails in its fundamental duty.