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This was moments ago (nakedness) as you lay, having fallen, the conditioned air chilly and silky against your chest. Two points you’d never noticed before but considered very deeply now: nipples. The outermost boundaries of a body, the endpoints, where the land of warm skin meets the sea of cold air. You lay on your back in the dark on the floor, like that, newly aware of your nipples. Her braids are tied back with an indigo scarf, the tail of which billows up, covering her face. That Uncle is in the terminal buying only two tickets, that she’s not coming with you, that she hasn’t said why. At this moment, here beside you, your mother is unquestionable. In the dream, as it happened, she kisses you quickly, her lips to your ear, and says, ‘Do as you’re told.’ The stranger presses a button and the flash goes off – POP! You fumbled for the photo you keep under your pillow as an antidote of sorts to the dream (or the waking): the sepia shot of your mother and you, with her crouched so you’re both the same height, cheek to cheek. Presently, the heart-wrenching voice floating up from the garden, ‘.’ You sat up. The day began typically: with the bulbul in the garden, with the sound of Auntie shouting about this or about that, with your little blue bedroom catching fire with sunlight and you waking up from the dream. Your mother pulls you close to her, so close you can taste her, the scent of her lotion delicious, a lie. The scarf is tied tightly, pulling her skin towards her temples, making her cheekbones jut out like a carved Oyo mask. The wildness of Lagos is an odd, knee-high backdrop: passing cars, people’s legs, soldiers’ boots, cripples, trash. You wouldn’t say your mother ‘abandoned’ you exactly; it was Uncle’s idea that you come. It is a heart-wrenching voice, cutting straight through the din of the chatter, forced laughter, clinked glasses, the crickets. She considered your cheerful slippers, considered Comfort, and hissed. ‘We’ll never bloody marry you off at this rate.’ She dropped Comfort’s chin and walked off.

You wonder if they find themselves beautiful, or powerful? There’s a party tonight.’ ‘I’m changing,’ you said softly. Borrow a from your cousin.’ ‘Yes, Madame.’ ‘Your hair is wet.’ She continued down the stairs then paused abruptly, looking up. His face blazed an unnatural pink when he shouted, like the colour of his hair, or his skin after visits. Sinclair wondered too and rushed over now, shouting, ‘DON’T TOUCH HER! After Uncle tried unsuccessfully to sell you on an omelette Francis intervened, uncharacteristically. (You were shocked when you moved here to find mangoes more perfect growing freely on the tree in the garden.) You’d go to the pool, glowing green in the darkness. There were no guests or hotel staff at the pool after midnight. He lifted you carefully out of the dining-room chair and carried you into his kitchen. Silent, he placed you at the small wooden table and returned to his work pounding yam. You’d never heard her thank anyone for anything before. You tap the glass lightly and wave your hand, testing, but no one looks up. It rained around four for five minutes and not longer; now the sky is rich black for its cleansing. Beneath it a band shows off the latest from Congo, the lead singer wailing in French and Lingala.

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