the kind that you know are there
but don’t believe in.
When my father was young, he climbed to the top of his family house and jumped.
He tells me this story now—slim legs crossed,
a wry smile glimmers behind his glasses.
In this life, he has not gone off into the night
he does not appear to me in a dream,
gaunt begging
draped over the mustard chair of my adult apartment.
Here I am alive and breathing and
my love is bright because of him.
***
Once, I came in from the cold, plunged my feet into hot water
until my blood turned sharp, until he came banging on the door.
I am my father’s daughter until he forgets.
I tear myself from the mouth of memory forgetting forgetting
toward forgiveness
I wonder if we were too cruel. I watch him drift from room to room,
whistling to fill the silence. I remember the day he came close
only to say, Please, I don’t want to be alone in my own home.
I did not want to be kind, I wanted a father.
In the car we argue about the state of Nigerian politics:
How come no-one ever goes back?
Why can’t I go home and build?
***
The tin-voice of his brother calls to wake us
Someone has seen him walking the streets of Lagos, red dirt pouring from his pockets
They blame us. He was never like this
My brother has stopped crying. Tells me
You’ll know who I am when you see it.
I lie for years, still feel the thrill
of a sweetened story
grow sick with borrowed nostalgia
for countries I want to claim. Give up
my seat for old folks. It’s the right thing to do,
especially for Black men, with red eyes who grip tight
to the swinging belly of the train–
Would you like to sit? I ask
Have you seen my father?
A man shuffles past me and I know
the curl of his shoulders, the heavy
blink of his eyes that ask to know tenderness.
His arms lift in prayer and I cannot stop my arms
from reaching to hold a man who is not my father,
Would you like to sit?
You break seven years of silence to ask if I am nice.
Don’t you know,
from you I inherited this strange power
to remain unknown. Imagine,
a final death in place of this slow, intentional killing.
One final eviction to muzzle the rattle of the haunted.
Oyin Olalekan is a Nigerian-born, 25-year-old poet, screenwriter, and filmmaker. Her solo exhibition Speaking (in Tongues) was followed by an appearance of her work in the Sawubona Project in Toronto. She is a Winter Tangerine Fellow and was selected as an Emerging Director by the Doc Institute’s New Visions Program. Her forthcoming documentary short film, Kitchen Talks, will be her directorial debut. She holds an M.A. in Media Production from Ryerson University and is always reaching for the next story to tell: @okay.oyin.