Going Mad in Nsukka

Mọ́renikeji, God is dead, and I’ve been binge-watching videos on YouTube. I swear, I am not trying to be a woke babe. The world is made of blood, and we are all gut-deep lacerations, asymmetrical axes, Linea nigras, butchering ourselves like every other jolly old meat seller—swipe the knife and hackhackhack. We all eat ourselves—I ate my brother’s index; don’t blame me. What’s the difference if it’s brewing in bitter leaf broth? It’s alright Mo, like rain, you can taste the world on my lips. I do not know what killed my grandmother, but it must have been me in some way. Yes, I use her yellow wrapper to sleep at night, and it’s really no problem; she was a murderer too. Yes, I have killed more than a million men for being free. I saw a little girl yesterday; she was bent over a gutter and brushing her teeth. I told her it was alright because everybody drank blood around here. Then I told her to swallow her spit next time, or we would kill her. I forgot to tell her there was no use running because she was us and she would kill herself. I don’t understand why people think dying is such a difficult thing to do—a dog died this evening, and all it had to do was cross the road. I don’t really care, but my mother killed that dog. His name was Bruno, but that’s my name as well. Yes, the rain drowned my sister, and all she had to do was look up. The boy we shot—all he had to do was blink twice. So it’s weird to see you spending your whole life trying to die when the world is specifically made to kill you. That’s blatant insolence, but it’s effective as well—it killed my cousin last month. Not like I know anything more than you do—as you can see, I bagged a bachelor’s degree for being depressed for four years. I might stick it in the toilet or rule the world. Don’t get any wild ideas; there’s no difference between the world and a toilet. Or, I am just an educated illiterate. I don’t even know the difference between blood in the body and blood on the floor. No, you can’t say spillage because we wouldn’t have so many holes if spillage were a sin. I am not going to argue with you, Mo, because I don’t see the difference between the body and the floor. I don’t even know the difference between Bruno, Bruno, and Bruno. So, maybe we died on hot coal tar while a truck was driving a man. That is no new thing. Hey, Mo. Don’t you think ‘lived’ is such a weird word? 

Going Mad in Nsukka II: Ophelia on a Walk.

It is 6 a.m., and all the stray dogs are minding their business. I’m not implying that the old women around here are bitches, but they don’t respond when I greet. They must think I’m mad and harmless; I bet they don’t know that I killed a cockroach last night while my roommates went yellow from screeching. Well, that’s that. I’ve got a clump of chicken shit beneath one leg of my favorite bathroom slippers, and it stinks like life. I don’t like the chickens here because they’re too lithe to be caught. I mean, on camera, I’m not a thief, you jackass. I had to run. When you hang around people for too long, they get all of their business in your nose until there’s no space for yours and you can’t breathe. I guess that means a lot of people are not stray dogs. They have hands they don’t use for walking, yet they don’t think it’s enough for them. I hate it that I’m too sane to get lost. It is fear that makes me put my pocket in my phone when a smoking, bald man passes. If I were mad enough, I would have tossed it in this puddle. Yes, the sky is too small to be a pocket; that’s why all hell is let loose. Yes, I spent last night holding back my tears because there was no evidence of my pain. I don’t think God put in all his care; I’ve been leaking all my life. This school girl’s skirt is too tight, her hair is too low, and her teeth are too dirty. She greets me, and I don’t respond. I guess that makes me the same as the old women I didn’t say were bitches. This damned phone is ringing again. Home haunts me, and I’m too sane to set the whole thing on fire. This coal-black dog scratches its right ear with its right hind paw. I wish I had a superpower like that. I bet all of these buildings are sore and miserable from not dying. Yes, death is the kindest gift I’ll be getting, but I think the delivery man made off with it. Ill luck. I mean, look at this perfectly crushed chick on this death road. Blood vaporizing. Everything is messed up because I am not it. Everything is messed up because I am not Odysseus. I don’t care about Ithaca; I just want some quiet. Yes, I am innocent; my feet are the sane ones. My concerned would be mother if she saw this, but we can keep it between us. I wish I was a stray dog. I wish I was a stray dog. I wish I was a stray dog. They can’t go home, even if they want to. 

Going Mad in Nsukka III: The Year the Poet Died

He wrote something like, I don’t cook for my mother, but I’d cook for you. He was so good at writing bad poetry, and I loved him. Anyway, this strawberry-flavored ice cream is so sweet and cheap. I think thin slippers are for people who don’t give a fuck anymore, so I plan to get another pair of flip-flops. I called him, and he didn’t answer. I’ve been calling him for days now. I don’t want him dead, but if he isn’t, I’d be offended. Now these people want me off this lovers’ bench because I’m alone. I don’t care if they’re kissing or fondling; I just want to sit down. Byung-Chul Han said something about touch being the only way to live this life. Heck. My ass is not so fat, and if you read the last poem, then you should know that I’ve been walking. I see the moon nuzzling against the neck of this tall building, and I remember his hair on my neck. He always came with warm light. I see the moon nestled between the parted legs of this twin birch; it’s such a beautiful metaphor for sex. No, I don’t like to think of sex because all of the phrases are so violent and cannibalistic. I mean, I’m a girl, not a batch of doughnuts. I don’t know how a person can smell like cake all the time, but he did. I bet if I let him kiss me, he would have tasted like cake too. Now, I’m thinking of eating him. I’m not different from the rest of the world after all. These ornamental trees look hunched with sadness. I take a photo of them and send it to my friend, who knows a lot about trees. She says it’s a Masquerade tree, but I’m not so sure about that. I like to watch the pretty girls walking, but if they talk to me, I’ll get pissed. It’s important to watch all the pretty things from a distance; get close, and the magic will be besmirched. Everybody is in love around here; it kind of makes me not want love. I call him again, and he doesn’t answer. Maybe we’re doing test runs for the future. I really want to sit bare-assed on the sculpture of a hand holding a lamp. It says something about light and showing people the way; all I want is some air up my asshole without people calling me mad. I know I am, but the least you can do is be polite about it. I’m a simple person, really. Maybe that’s why nothing special ever happens to me. I think that’s cool because if the world has given me nothing, then I owe it nothing. Then he said something like, I want to run through meadows in Japan with you. I lied; that’s from a song I wish he sang. Well, I think he’s dead now. You know, poets like to die just to see if they really can. He did. And I can still smell cake on my fingers. I still do not know what love is, but giving him my hands was a cool reflex. I guess I should be grateful because if the poet hadn’t died, then nothing special would have happened to me this year. It’s just that I miss him, and I’ve been eating so much cake. 

A wanderer at heart, James-Ibe Chinaza spends her time walking, thinking, and thinking about thinking. She is a writer, a poet dying, music eater, and hobbyist photographer. She currently serves as the Assistant Editor of the Muse Journal, UNN. She goes by Umami_kun on X, and yellowin_teeth on Instagram.