and tells her she’s the sweetest little girl.

She wears a look of brave sorrow as she proceeds

back down Ibosere Road swamped by fussing adults

and flanked by a gaggle of excited children

who skip ahead announcing her triumphant return.

When Taiwo, cowering on the steps, looks for sympathy,

Kehinde sneakily pokes out her tongue, before she’s swept

inside with all the ceremony of an ancient African court –

by a grim-looking mama to whom Taiwo is now invisible.

She is the tragic Yoruba princess for the afternoon,

pampered, petted, and right now stuffing her mouth

with glistening, freshly-cooked, corncakes.

GREGORIO, a face serene as a Benin bronze,

wears a Homburg tilted oh so, moves from the hips,

his shoulders follow. His slow, measured step

says he knows he’s somebody. Taiwo knows

he’s God for when he enters the road he sees

people move like the parting of the Dead Sea.

His daddy’s so tall his eyes can spot Taiwo

quivering like a maimed bird a mile away.

His daddy can see through wood, stone and bone.

He has houses, servants and suits so sharp

you can draw margins with the trouser crease.

When he towers above his son, an elephant at night,

Taiwo feels like a fly about to be stepped on.

His twins bow when he enters, speak when

spoken to, do not look him in the eyes and do not,

I repeat, do not, play games in the cemetery.

When Gregorio demands answers,

Taiwo’s voice dries up like the water pump

from Scotland at the end of the street which splutters

but delivers nothing. When his daddy beckons

him to follow, he feels like the bat, all mashed up inside.

The rest of the world ceases to exist for Taiwo.

There is just him and his daddy containing an anger

as deadly as the sharks beyond the reef.

WHITE SQUARE ROOM, plastered walls, curtains drawn

to keep out the pervasive sun and flies. Stern,

high-backed chairs, elaborate gilt-edged cabinets

made by Aguda craftsmen. Spotless wooden floor bearing

no sign of this home’s inhabitants. God and his family

in painting, ornament, cross – adorn walls. Gaslight

shadows the room yellow; a rocking chair, squeaking.

Gregorio – legs astride, stone eyes, lips dry, tirade

running on like a waterfall. ‘You, boy, are as worthless

as the rotting fish on the beach. Your brains are smaller

than a tsetse fly. You have the manners of a hog,

the discipline of a mad bush-boy. Ah! Are you my son?’

Taiwo stood to attention like a toy colonial soldier,

tears crusting his plump cheeks. This was the easy part.

After came ten licks, a worn leather belt kept hanging

on the door for this purpose. His mama entered,

served Gregorio with jollof rice, chicken, moi-moi,

while Taiwo put his right finger on the ground,

raised his left leg behind him in a straight line, and stayed

motionless. His head throbbed, nose burned, ran