Michael Akuchie

I We move out from the park, through a circle of chairs, And pass a sleepy-eyed attendant from whose mouth Igbo language moulds concepts like chunks of meaning. Ikpoba hill Descends on us as a woman seductively unwrapping her dress. The landscape still spells Benin with red sand and Perfervid sun. Suddenly, it becomes green with envy That I am leaving. I too feel guilty that I am abandoning Home for another home…