Poem by Olanrewaju Olajumoke Akinla

The genealogy of social poverty may be traced to a sore.
Left unattended, it rots.
The odour thickens.
Because you reek, you isolate
and watch life from afar.
On Tamono’s sixteenth birthday,
two women led her to the native theatre.
The traditional surgeon—a woman of many halves—arrived.
Raiment: half-naked.
Body: half-bent.
Face: half crumbled.
Teeth: half extinct.
Breasts: Ichabod—glory departed.
She pushed Tamono to the floor and leaned over her.
Her long, dangling breasts slapped Tamono’s face,
preparing her for the pain ahead.
She spread the girl’s legs,
lifted a blade,
and cut.
Tamono’s cries echoed beyond that night.
She spent the rest of her life standing by the window.
Staring.
Staring.
Staring at the decades passing by