That time i told you i didn’t like my mum’s cooking and remembered you were my mum

woman— delicate with stepfather's simping, the spilling 
of his bowl of banga soup on the kitchen floor is libation

our ugly dog scampered for, your tongue numb in its mouth. 

mummy: an ageless spell spoken to possess, with your kitten, 
the palm oil intolerant devil that followed me back home 

from uni. poor thing, rubbing its furry body against my feet
to weaken my knees with penitence— that is actually penitence, only if

i fall upon my own sword at the door of your room, like you,

to say anything but, sorry. sorry as i don renew your dstv 
subscription, as your birthday picture wey i post on facebook 

don get one thousand likes. sorry, as mummy nau, as open
door. sister wan follow you talk with my phone, your chest

softening with every kiss of your teeth, that comes after you 
dey disturb me o. better go look for your real mama. no be me 

born you. 

but i tarried, saw your closed wooden door thin transparent, and 
you're there, bestie and mother wrapped in one body with a mouth

revelation will unfold during morning devotion, where your sigh will flip

your old kjv bible to read out my sentence, but i will drown it out with a loud snore, 
or the theme song of your favourite soap opera suddenly playing on my phone,

 because we say anything but sorry here. 

Martins Deep (he/him)

Martins Deep is a poet, photographer, digital artist, and a graduate of Ahmadu Bello University, Zaria.

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Author Note:

I recall the biting saltiness of lunch, the unkind words I hate to remember slipping carelessly from my mouth, and watching them shatter her heart amidst mourning my Dad. And I never even uttered a simple apology, opting instead to buy her things, because in our family, you see, acts of kindness were the perfect synonym for “I’m sorry.”

Now, two years after, any time I eat a meal she cooked I have to salt myself, I bite my tongue, and the wound I opened in her reopens in mine.