By Chris O. Okunnuwa

Ayetoro began as a town of wood
holding itself above the water,
a sanctuary raised to catch twin-births
before the oro cult could drown them.

My father taught the alphabets there.
Now the letters are underwater.
A blackboard leans in brine
Desks, driven out of their rows.
A window opens onto fish.

Twelve times, armed men came for the town.
Twelve times, the enemies were defeated.
But the sea had no army.
It entered through the back road,
took a house, then the school.

Once, the water gave nets heavy with fish.
Ships docked and loaded from there,
reaching for distant coasts.
Oil is still drawn from the seabed.

A promised embankment stays folded on paper.
At low tide the school comes back
with salt in its mouths
More than half of the town
reached now only by boat.

The tide is still coming in.

Chris Okunnuwa is a Nigerian-born poet and writer based in Manchester, UK. His poetry explores heritage, diaspora life and belonging, drawing on his Ilaje heritage and experiences between Nigeria and Britain.