The teenager who became my mother had a way of feeling, seeing and hoping.
It was hope in particular rafted her through the war.
She was not one-eyed either were her hairs curly,
She had a body of one colour: black.
I remember when I asked her if she has ever seen anyone die.
She moved her head up and down: A kind of Yes.
She said she saw five and twenty and more;
That most of them drowned inside of her.
I looked her in the eyes after she had exhausted her dying tales before me.
I saw the teenager who became my mother
and was a graveyard for those drowned inside of her
to see us crawl through the war.
Chinua Ezenwa-Ohaeto is a Nigerian who likes reading and writing.