by Candice Iloh
to be better followers of the Christ, Our Lord
I hand them over proudly, knowing how to be
a good student, knowing how to be
a good follower, knowing these
are not my own words
anyone can find
and use to
expose me
On this night the stillness of my bedsheets
allows me to daydream
about the dancers in ways
I could not see them
moving their feet across
the church altar floor
their angelic bodies
leaping and stretching
twirling to a tune
meant for god
and still I see
their eyes looking
at each other
My eyelids don’t seem able to meet each other
so tonight
quietly I climb out of bed
walk in short steps toward my desk
and reach for the top drawer hoping
it makes no creaks, no sound to
alert my father that his child is not asleep
I am lucky when the drawer that holds my things
comes sliding out, and I reach
for one sheet of paper, a pencil and
to the small switch of my lamp
I begin
with her feet
For her toes
my pencil draws
a short
curved
line
down
toward
the bottom
of the
page
and
rounds
just
where
they meet
the ground
then swoops
back up
to the arch
of her
balancing
feet, on
pointe
just like
a pro
But what pro takes this long
to get it
right
since I can’t sleep
tonight
I’m going back
for another
and another
sheet
with each jagged line
with each draft
going back
trying to see
my pointed toe dancer
just as she’s kept
appearing
in my dreams
I am sketching and shading
the way we were taught in art class
to make something look real
how they taught us
to use our fingers for smudging the lead
to blend
how they taught us
to use the tip of the pencil for thin marks
to define
how they taught us
to observe something
we want to bring to life
how they taught us
to use the pink eraser only if we wanted
to forget
our mistakes
I make the mistake
of forgetting about the time
and hours later it is morning
Dad finds me nestled
on my bedroom carpet
laid out
on top of every page
where her feet are
drawn too many times
for me to count
each sketch proof
of two things
I’m not good at
each sketch
a reason
that I’ll be late
You want to be grown
but you can’t even
wake up for your alarm
you want to be grown
but you can’t even
sleep like a proper human being
you want to be grown
but you spend the whole night
drawing this silly thing
Dad bends
down to reach the closest copy
of the silly thing
releases a dramatic sound
as he curves over
his bulging belly
and just looks
one eyebrow lifts, shoots
another look, his forehead rippling
into curves of both suspicion and
confusion, drops the silly thing
my eyes watching it float
to the floor
and says
you have
five minutes to
get ready
I’m ready
in ten minutes
or something like that
meet Dad in the
driveway where the engine is running
for effect even though he was
threatening that by now he
would have left me
I scoot into the back seat
our eyes meeting in the rearview
after the rush, my heart pounding
through my t-shirt
his hands let go of the steering wheel
and move to his lap as he utters
let us pray
And father god protect Ada from distraction
he prays
keep her ears and eyes open
he prays
cover her with your blood
cleanse her
of the spirit of disobedience
help her stay focused, lord
he prays
thank you for your loving mercy
for letting us see another day
in Jesus name amen
Dad clears his throat
lifts his head from prayer
this man of unyielding faith
meeting my eyes again
in the rearview mirror
a paused silent protest
against my ride to school
waiting for me to agree
so I too say
amen
COLLEGE
The first week is supposed to be anything but serious
so I take my new roommate’s advice
decide to go out and wander with her on campus
we take the stairs down avoiding all the families still here
crowding old dingy elevators that go out of service every hour
grab the maps and lists of places
to spend our money from the dorm front desk
stand briefly outside watching rental cars pull away
thankful dad didn’t linger like a lot of them did
make our way on campus
to find the food
Feels like it takes the whole four years
we’ll be here to get on main campus
where we find everyone and everything
flocks of college boys stopping my roommate
every five minutes to holler and asking
yo, where you from, sweetheart? and can I call you sometime?
where you stay at, shorty? damn, I’m tryna study with you, tho
able to smell the freshmen meat instantly
rushing at the sight of the overly glossed lips
and shine of her cell phone she’d blinged
her body a magnet for all who wanted a taste
Watching her lick her lips as if she could taste
the cherry in her cheap lip gloss
tossing her hand out like flyers
I watched her handle all potential
players and these questions
&nb
sp; like a pro
Sophia wit’ a p-h
save it right
I don’t spell it
like them other bitches out here
says
I’m from BROOKLYN
repeating for the fifth boy
leaning into the OOK
with more attitude
than anyone needs
says
oh, and this is my roommate
y’all don’t be rude,
an instruction given with a twist
of her body making coy eye contact
with each boy now in her immediate vicinity
yeah that’s what I heard her
daddy call her
she African
she say the A different, y’all
says this
glancing at me with a smile
flinging another wink
After like the tenth boy I leave
Sophia to her crowd of admirers
keep walking to the cafeteria alone
now feeling my stomach grumbling
wonder if I look as lost as I am
follow the groups that look
as young and dumb as me
find it and suddenly
feel like I’m back
in high school
sort of
Except here everybody’s black
or
brown
and I’m not the only one
who looks like their parents
gave them a name not everyone
can pronounce
Ada (Aah-dah!)
in the Igbo
language
means first daughter
means oldest girl
means pressure
means you are expected
to do a lot of things
you don’t want to do
because the honor
of this family
rests on your back
Back in high school
everyone hated the days
you had to find somewhere new to sit
when you had to find somewhere you fit
and wouldn’t be cast off like these
crusty options they’re serving
in this massive bootleg food court
here you’ve got so-called choices
if you have a taste for their versions
of Italian, Chinese, or Indian
and when that fails
there’s always days-old salad
a sad sandwich bar, stale Cap’n Crunch
or good old mac and cheese
I didn’t walk around with a cheesy smile
searching for friends
or for anyone who’d take me in
at their table
in high school
so college wasn’t different
made a circle through the crowd
got in a random line where
the lady slapped some rice and
a random brown stew on my plate
found a seat somewhere to inhale it
by myself
When sitting by yourself
eating food
that doesn’t
taste like
home you
eat fast
and leave
without being
noticed
SIXTH GRADE
The sixth grade is a strange time.
There are suddenly big tests and first dances and health classes where the teacher is suddenly asking you to watch a vagina expand because a baby is coming out of it and suddenly you need to know about this and the bell rings and you change classrooms and are given four minutes to get to your next one. All kinds of things happen in the hallway as you move to the next one. You hear and see everything and sometimes it’s about you. Sometimes everyone is talking about or laughing at you and you don’t really have time to be sure because you can’t be late and you don’t really have time to cry. Your father says these people are not important. That when you leave this place you will forget all about them and they will be nobody and whether or not they thought your hair was the most hilarious thing or your voice was too deep or that your mustache was visible on this day will not matter. They will not matter. Crying is stupid when it is over a boy or the group of girls who you just wanted to like you enough to make you their friend.
I discovered sixth grade also meant real freedom
when I learned
now I can run the house by myself
now there are hours between
getting out of school and Dad’s car
pulling into the driveway
in these hours
I drop my bookbag
in the middle of the kitchen floor
I eat everything
I want from the fridge
I walk over
to Dad’s massive speaker
flip the switch to radio
turn the volume up high
and pretend the living room is mine
and for once
I am the chosen one
picked first for the stage
The living room became my perfect stage
every weekday afternoon
with its wide space &
with its loud speakers &
with its bass that trembled
so deep
it pissed off
the neighbors
I didn’t think about the neighbors
until day three
of my solo performance sessions
rounding my back and
moving my legs to the beat
across our living room
carpet when
I hear the front
doorbell ring
and on the other side
of the door
there’s no applause
just two cops
who’d come
to shut me down
As I stand on the inside of our front door
and lift my hand
to reach the golden knob
my eyes trace its round
and shining surface
they bounce back
and forth between
its gleam and the tremble
of curved fingers
and I hear the boom
of Dad’s voice
wonder if when he
warned me about strangers
he also meant the police
My still-trembling fingers
finally grasp the knob
as I take one last look
out through the peephole
past their white faces
and onto the street
I turn it
force a smile
say nothing
Nothing is wrong except
there is a car with sirens on its roof in our driveway&
there are two tall white men standing on our porch&
there are two men looking beyond me into our kitchen&
there are neighbors peeking out windows at our house&
there are huge cops with guns I can see who’ve come to tell me
that I’m too loud
too much
too free
After I’ve closed the door behind me
and they’ve driven off
having warned me
I’ve already told myself
that I will not tell Dad
he doesn’t need to know
they’d been here
he doesn’t need to know
the neighbors were looking
he d
oesn’t need to know
for a moment in the space between the officers and myself
there was nothing to protect me
Dad works in mysterious ways to protect me
we pull into the middle school parking lot / he announces that Aunty is coming / followed by have a good day / he liked dropping bombs and leaving / no time for discussion / no debate / so I spend all eight periods thinking about how / Aunty is coming with her big suitcase / Aunty is coming with her big suitcase full of shoes and stockfish / her big suitcase full of gifts and egusi / her big suitcase full of photos and fanta orange / just as I am growing used to being alone and in our big house / Dad tells me Aunty is coming from Nigeria to our house / to live
Forever?
She is just coming for a visit
Dad says
But you said—
What does it matter?
Dad asks
But what about my cousins
I ask
They are coming too
Dad says
But what about Uncle
I ask
He’s not coming this time
someone’s got to watch their house
I don’t know why
their big Nigerian house
needs to be watched but
by the hard waves crashing
against my dad’s forehead
I know not to ask
I don’t care much anyway
my baby cousins are coming
Aunty is coming
though I’ll soon have to start sharing
all this space once all mine
I can’t wait to see
what my favorite aunty brought
from where Dad calls home
Aunty’s arrival brings every new thing
only five days after Dad tells me
so we’re cleaning all the rooms
rearranging everything