I grew up in a makeshift hut
Where anger bore holes on our leaky roof
Here, we filtered laughter often to weigh its worth
Urchins – There were six of us, I became the 7th one

In our house, problems creep in and out
So, I dug 7 holes where I poured libations to appease their tempers
The outcome – a waterlogged entrance

Where I woke to the creaking of our wooden door on sunny afternoons
Just to have papa pound me for lunch

Same way he planted a seed in my sister
Now she has a replica of him sprouting in her

All papa could ever boast of was
His contorted face with disgruntled frowns
Each time he raises his iron fist on mama

Each punch leaving a patch on her eye
A rough sketch of colours that lured her into blindness

Where pain droops from the icheku tree nearby
Its long pods forming clusters of complaints
Dangling on my neck like a label
Inscribed on the palette of my identity

Where do you call home
Is it the same as mine?

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