They sat at table,
to celebrate the opening of a house
and for an afternoon scotch—
Andrè for the belted necks,
I sat there too,
mine a malt and peppery chicken drumsticks—

they talk of the hatred
we attract, the businesses we loved
and the stillborn country—
my father argued shall raise
but this resent I locked up
to see in each tribe human,

while I never stop asking —

Are we same of one mother,
shall we struggle for the breasts
whose right it is, or walk away
like it was never for us?


© Favour Ike