Mothers & Tales here, we are snowballs that drop. sometimes, we check up our cheeks to see if there are more stones to throw. —childhood fleets too, we dare know. mother has confessed of different stories when she sat us under an Udala tree, where our ancestry dangles their hatchet in case someone tries to ransack their remains. Don’t twitch your gazes, moimi told me the tale & our mothers do not lie, their lips only get reddened by the lard of a palm-kernel when they speak random truths. So say, you — I dare say, I loathe halloween. Mother once told me there’s a grim reaper that escapes from its demimonde every season to rip out the guts of the children who shrug to their mama’s words. So, I bandage myself into a wrapper of mom’s every night & lingo plummets on my tongue till all I say is I love you, mama. Life is not a trinket of rebirth, or the ashes of a phoenix. Tomorrow, I might ask God to make my mind the pigment of my retina. & bath me in the red sea —till all I drip is blue hue. but that’ll be a poem for another day.