There Was a Country: A Personal History of Biafra

desperately at passing

hints of normalcy like

vines entwining a hollow

twig; its famished roots

close on rubble and every

piece of broken glass.

Irritations we used

to curse return to joyous

tables like prodigals home

from the city. . . . The meter man

serving my maiden bill brought

a friendly face to my circle

of sullen strangers and me

smiling gratefully

to the door.

After a war

we clutch at watery

scum pulsating on listless

eddies of our spent

deluge. . . . Convalescent

dancers rising too soon

to rejoin their circle dance

our powerless feet intent

as before but no longer

adept contrive only

half-remembered

eccentric steps.

After years

of pressing death

and dizzy last-hour reprieves