| I travel home to remember the sound of morning
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| I choose the evening to pray I remember this as it is
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| For when the city returns
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| When the sound of the green-line trolley cars and skyscrapers
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| Surround my senses diminishing this version of my imagination
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| I will remember this
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| The silence and the night time
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| I will remember red sand on bare feet
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| My skin sticky glistening in the sun
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| My hair like untamed wool
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| I will remember the air thick of Africa
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| I will remember my mother in the night
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| And the children she cares for
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| I will see them once more as they play
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| Peeking at me from the crack in the doorway
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| I will remember my aunti-- her famous Jeloff rice
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| Asking me in flawless Ishan native tongue
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| «Ofure…Onegbe?»…How is everything… you're too skinny"
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| And I, struggling to keep up, clumsily responding
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| «Butayay aunti?» |
| That means, I don’t know what you just said
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| I will remember the market place
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| The women selling smoked corn and plantain
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| The taste of moy-moy and egusi
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| The sound of Doris pounding yam
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| Fresh oranges from the Arrimogiga farm
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| When Boston city lights mask the majesty of my favorite constellations
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| I will remember the moon…
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| Pregnant and smiling
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| Because I am a poet
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| As if she knows that I am
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| Invested enough to write about it
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| Perhaps because I am a poet
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| I will remember the unseen
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| The homeless and the beggars, the roadside wanderers
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| People just trying to survive
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| Children roadside selling cell phones and unwanted trinkets
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| I will remember the local roads
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| Beaten and eroded by rain and time
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| Huts built beside a 15 story hotel skyrise
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| So many having so much
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| Neighbors with others living with nothing
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| But the hand-me-downs on their backs
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| And the realities of poverty crushing their
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| Promises of tomorrow
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| I leave behind my rose colored glasses
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| In my grandfather’s village
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| Because when my plane finally lands back in Boston
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| I want to believe that Nigeria changes me every time
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| These moments teach me how to recognize what we take for granted
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| Constant electricity and clean water
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| Hospitals on every corner
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| The opportunity to rise beyond our native borders
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| These are the details that risk a fate of becoming lost or forgotten
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| Like sounds of the morning
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| For when the city returns
|
| When the sound of the green-line trolley cars and skyscrapers
|
| Surrounds my senses diminishing this version of my imagination
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| I will remember this
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| I need to remember this |