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will somebody tell my father
that his daughter’s body has always been desecrated?
tell him not to boast of her purity in the least part of the sanctuary.
will someone tell my father
that his daughter has always been a broken road?
tell him not to boast of knowing the way home.
will he not ask
about sour tongues
that have wiped the wall
of my sanctum?
does he not want to know
about rejected fingers
that have fiddled my keyhole?
shouldn’t we tell him
about feet
that have taken down the walls of my tiny dwelling?
maybe he should know
that I am a broken home
with jagged lips
an abandoned house
with lifeless arms,
a thatched cottage
unable to walk,
invaded by countless trouser snakes.
so when next you see my father
tell him to check through the holes
in his daughter’s head if this were to be a lie,
tell him to find a key that perfectly fits the aperture
in the centre of her belly
If he were to seek the truth,
just tell him to walk through fissures
in her tongue
and look into closures
in her eyes
if the home he claims to know
still exists therein.
About the Author
Rofiat Kareem is a writer, poet and lover of language. She lives in the south-western Nigeria, where she writes from. She currently studies English Language at Obafemi Awolowo University.
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