Combining poetry & photography, I use visuals to carry poems through me 

and out to the world. 

Rotting Flowers

I’m going to tell you a story, a true story: A black man with a black wife and a black son, 

calls himself pro-black, then, twists his mouth to set my womanhood on fire, 

says he does not want a daughter, bathes in my ashes, 

the black man’s unborn daughter screams at his cruelty but he drowns her too.

Let’s play a game, if a Nigerian woman has 5 children and none of them are boys is she 

a.) useless

b.) barren 

c.) empty

                d.) a rotting flower 

Another Story: 

My sister says ‘I miss you’ but she says it like ‘it’s hard being the only girl in the house.’ 

She tells me a boy at school make bets on invading her body. She tells me one boy tried to 

steal her body from her. The boy asked if they are still friends… it starts young, boys steal 

from girls then ask for love as forgiveness. 

Here is the next question:

If a Nigerian woman has 5 children and all of them are daughters, are the daughters 

      a.) flowers nobody ever wanted

b.) bound to be hurt by men 

                                      c.) their father’s property until it’s time to inherit  

d.) somebody’s housewife 

My favorite story: 

When me & my sister fight, my mom says “I never had a sister. I always wanted two girls and god, 

this great god, blessed me with two beautiful daughters, so please... don’t fight.” 

My mother taught me I am wanted before men could open their mouths. 

The final question: A Nigerian woman pulls her 5 daughters close to her chest, her heart beating, 

the 5 daughters look up at their father and ask, will you: 

a.) look for another wife

b.) despise her 

c.) despise her 

d.) dispose of her

I’m going to tell you a story, A true story about flowers that turn to ashes when men deem them unworthy: 

School girls in Nigeria go missing and only mothers cry. The men know their sons are safe 

and their last names will live on. One girl returned from death alive with a baby from the afterlife, 

her father & brothers will not look at her. Another woman decides to remove her tongue, 

tries to forget her memories, cries only at night for fear that her husband will know she is tainted. 

At my school, a black man leans back in his chair, casts my womanhood into the grave he dug for me, 

says he does not want a daughter & still calls himself a revolution, 

as he tramples over my dead body into battle... & I want to cry but I don’t, 

instead I tell a story, a never-ending story about a massacre of flowers, 

a slow genocide of the most beautiful beings this world refuses to love.

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