tima, your hair looks like the aftermath of war,
he tells me later,
and we laugh.
the hair, too,
strands latch round his index in laughter,
circles round in turns like possessed thing
and i am reminded by what is stark in its colour,
of my identity
actually, it is me who’s
the aftermath of war
my name is new & used –
butchered at the edges, keeping the fate
of its real owner away.
she did not survive the scald of home.
because mine smelt of burning
and fleeing and cowardice,
i shed it
every breath is a fleeing child
it’s what you do when home hiccups
with human lives as jagged breaths
so, my hands, too, are an aftermath of leaving
so are my feet
so are these lips that cover around his now
like a sudden idea; excited and prodding
i do not say any of this to him
Hauwa Shaffii Nuhu is a poet and essayist from Nigeria, whose work has appeared online and in print on platforms such as Popula, Ake Review, After the Pause journal, The Bitter Oleander, Brittle Paper, Eunoia Review, Selves anthology, Afridiaspora and elsewhere. She’s currently rounding up a law degree.