Sometimes, whenever my mother gets mad at me

she sits on the floor, unties her head gear, disintegrates herself

and becomes many stories

I pick one piece of her and read her scars:

when I got pregnant with you

my father and mother disowned me

and locked the youth server that poured his seed in me—your father—up in the police station

when he came out, he fled the town without completing his service.

I fling the piece but there is no use,

it has already settled in my stomach.

I am a loose thing, other children

bring happiness and joy       but I didn’t

a child born out of wedlock

is only the shameful product of a man stealing what is not (yet) his

from a wayward woman who lets him

shame is like cashew juice; something that stains you

and never comes off;

when I was only seven

a big man came to visit my mother in our house

before he came, she warned me sternly, pulling her ear—

be quiet. do not make a sound.

Later that day, as I sat quietly in my room,

I saw a big rat come out of nowhere

I managed to keep my reaction to a squeal,

I heard his big man voice—who’s that?—my mother answered, “it’s from the next house.”

After he left,

my mother came to me. She pulled my ears and spanked me so hard,

I sent a curse to my father wherever he was.

But that was when she was younger,

when she could still pull ears, when she still had big men flocking after her. These days,

my mother just intentionally forgets me in the passage leading to the home of god.

Illegitimate children have no place here, the pastor says.

© Omotoyosi Salami 

Omotoyosi Salami is a young, budding writer and poet from Nigeria who is fascinated with Yoruba traditions and history. When she’s not writing, she is most definitely reading or taking a nap. Some of her poetry have been published in online journals and magazines such as Kalahari Review, Brittle Paper, MerakMag, and Mojave Heart Review. She is on Twitter as @yorubasnflwr and her Medium site is www.medium.com/@yorubasnflwr.