In Igboland
written by Nicole Sealey
After plagues of red locusts are unleashed by a jealous god hell-bent on making a scene, her way of saying hello or how dare you, townspeople build her a mansion of dirt, embedded with bone china, decorated wall-to-wall with statues made from clay farmed from anthills— statues of tailors on their knees hemming the pant legs of gods; statues of diviners reading sun-dried entrails cast onto cloths made of cowhide; statues of babies breaching, their mothers’ legs spread wide toward the sky, as if in praise.
Sacrifices of goats and roosters signal headway behind the fence that hides the construction. A day is set. Next spirit workers disrobe and race to the fence, which they level, heap into piles and set ablaze, so the offering is first seen by firelight, not unlike a beloved’s face over candlelight. The West in me wants the mansion to last. The African knows it cannot. Every thing aspires to one degradation or another. I want to learn how to make something holy, then walk away.
(Originally appeared in The American Poetry Review, Vol. 44, No. 02)