of these wan brides of Christ by Gregorio, treble her years

and desirous of a madonna negra to reproduce himself.

‘Why, of why, must I be chosen but cannot choose?’ she cried.

‘The answer, a fine dowry, so I could be wed. Kind enough

I hoped to love him but at night I yearned to be held, to feel

the pleasure of my husband’s warmth. He turned his back

and the moon, watching, threw light on his snoring body.

I could barely breathe, my waters broke, I birthed twins:

Taiwo tasted the world first, Kehinde brought up the rear.

This was love, none could match it; all day they slept

tied with a wrapper, breathed hot air into my back,

life into me. But nights were restless, my dreams took me

to Abeokuta, home of gentle hills, and Olumorro,

the rock overlooking the town, its caves large enough

to hide children from slave-catchers. The Guardians,

two women who lived in the rock, one my grandmother.

Her daughter strapped me to her back. How I miss

my mother, it grows with my young married years.

When the sun rises over the lagoon, filters our room orange,

I gather my crying newborns into my arms and for the hours

between sun-up and down, give them all the love I crave.’

THE TWINS grow into podgy little puddings

with a gleaming cropped head of black curls apiece.

Taiwo’s huge, bush-baby eyes are mischief-makers,

his scuffed knees knock together when he walks

and he dips fat fingers into egusi stew when Mama’s

not looking, darts lizard-speed out the door when she does

and on down the road, dodging the whacks of irate elders.

He drags Kehinde along to the cemetery, out of bounds,

high and full of mango trees, ripe with bursting fruit.

But he wants bats, hanging from branches, upside down,

wings closed, nocturnal, somnolent – bats – he shoots

them down with his home-made catapult, splits one open,

roasts it over a fire, feels like he’s a grown-up, throws one

at Kehinde to scare her and she screams the mangoes down.

When blood rushes from her hand like a headless chicken,

Taiwo knows he’s dead already. He picks up a large stone,

bashes the culprit until it’s all blood and dark mush,

then tries to carry Kehinde home like he’s a hero

carrying the war wounded. But inside his legs

are all jellyfish wobble and his eyes the sea at high tide.

KEHINDE will die young, like a butterfly.

She was born with a caul draped over her body.

Talibi! they said, Talibi! so she can see the future

but she will never see herself in her dreams.

For now all she has to do is bat her baby eyes

and watch the anger of adults dissolve into air.

Kehinde? No. It must be that rascal boy Taiwo.

Her mama takes her to the African General Hospital

where the doctor gives her bandages, biscuits