Their mama sneaked out, whacked Taiwo’s growing head,

to show him he was no man yet and still her baby boy.

He leaned on the balcony, recited Shelley’s olde verses,

as Kehinde rolled her eyes at his clipped British tones,

yawned dramatically when he rambled on about rolling

Yorkshire moors, King George, Big Ben, cream teas,

Christmas trees and, unbelievably, snow. How he’d stroll

through the City with bowler and brolly, amble into a pub

‘A pint of ale, my man!’ white froth fringing his top lip.

‘I say, what a lovely day!’ Taiwo swung from pillar

to pillar on the white parapet, bellowed to bemused

neighbours as they passed in Ibosere Road below.

Rosy-cheeked milkmaids obsessed his nights. Pale thighs.

Pink nipples. Pink nipples! His member burst with excitement.

Great Britain. The United Kingdom. The Motherland.

SOMETIMES a child drowns in a storm drain

or a body is fished out of the lagoon; palm oil, coins,

cock’s blood and secrets in a calabash by a crossing

meant Hubert Soglo of Dahomey was commissioned.

As the foetus in Kehinde invaded, nightmares descended.

She saw buildings collapse into rubble and dust,

her father in a tumultuous sea, arms flailing, her unborn

entombed for eternity in her womb, with the face

of Baba, his voice pleading, ‘It – is – not – time – yet.’

Those mornings when she battled to banish

her night foes, she awoke shaking. Sensing,

her mama rushed in with a damp cloth,

lay her daughter’s head on her lap, eased her frown

out from forehead to crown, becalmed her.

News spread through the city, flames reached Zenobia

that the wandering Gregorio had been waylaid by robbers

on the road to Badagry, and before the hour was out,

the whole island knew of his mutilation by cutlass.

Zenobia was used to the sunken space his side of the bed.

‘Life’s so hard,’ she thought. He had provided, but his love?

The kernel of a bitter kola nut. She never knew him.

At the burial she wailed but did not mourn her husband.

Apapa Docks, Lagos, 1949

She stood there in her best blue wrapper and head-tie,

the silent Zenobia, and the sea poured out of her.

She stood there until the ship had pulled out of harbour,

out of sight. Still, she stood there, listening

to the waves against the harbour walls. She looked out

onto the Slave Coast, Bight of Benin, the Atlantic

which had brought Gregorio from Brazil, and Baba.

Forever she stood there, watched the clouds converge,

prayed that her boy Taiwo would be safe on his journey,

happy in his new home. She thought of her marriage

without love, her childhood home in Abeokuta, Kehinde

about to give birth, and Baba – who was watching her now.

And she did not feel the salt sea stream down her face,

did not feel the steady breeze blow in from parts

of the world she would never know; and when the stars