On other things

kinsman

my kind of literature is on the streets:
the language my father’s bicycle spoke;
his neighbours frail chewing stick;
my grandpa’s belligerent fart;
the dust of ignorance on the sole of a stranger’s feet;
local ugep songs on repeat;
the caution in the spark of the last match stick;
stacatto rain drops;
the sweet sour taste of ekpan;
abuochiche’s masquerades;
the brittle hair in the underarm of an ogoja kinsman.

liː.ɒnl ɛtʃə