a manifesto for those who go home to dance alone

if it’s not the new colony of fruitfly

started and killed itself in the length of a sigh,

(do we say they ate themselves to death?

Is it conan, is it the lace in the big toe of God?)

If not them the kadhalikas,

the stilts in jeans standing at the corner

blazing and it should have been winona.


To those who dance to amari temba and chege,

aeroplanes will come to save you.

You say you hear bombers,

You say it is breaking glass.

But the council worker in green

Sweeping the portrait of herself off a curb,

She will wait there until it is

November again.

Take me to the dance

I want to see the dance.


All is well is well

Black faces in the well

Curses coming off the edges of our bodies

When we make love to objects

And death.


We were wrong to replace the god of wine

With the god of decadence.


And all those places

That are not places,

The small Bangladesh, the Kosovo.

Who knows if you are still living there,

Dancing with forgetfulness, my Nyunyu?

At least one of us is brave enough

To suffer.


And what is more awkward,

Than the long dancing legs

A luo girl left behind

In a breaking bed?



Take all the berries in the mountains,

Make your lover some caffeine,

And kiss the lace yes yes yes.


I went dancing with my friend

Because my other Nigerian friend

Was busy getting arrested

For a blowjob in a carpark.

The world is a sphere.

Who got arrested?


Was his name Galileo?


He said: “Take me to Mtwappa,

And show the dada.”


Whiskey is good, yes,

For paranoia and nightmare

And the godless.


It is not a nightmare

But it has the same kind of threded


A man singing as his older self

Backing vocals of a youger self.









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