on the road to akure my sister recycles conversations from yesteryears. my mother taps nude fingers against the wheel. sunlight outlines the scraggy scars on her face. my sister fondles the silver buckle of her belt. last night she stumbled out of her dreams with beaten eyes. she gulped water and smashed the glass cup against her bedroom wall. she found father’s silhouette in the pocket of her denim jacket. she faltered her words. she called mother a knocked-out equipment stuck in a loop of abandon and betrayal. from the backseat, my brother emerges – how far out are we? the interstate road splits into two. i pass my mother directions from the mobile map. my sister measures the distance as a unit of longing. of falling into father’s embrace. of loaning him a chance to amend the scars on mother’s face. of huffed shoulders and i-told-you-so glares. of labelling mother an unrepentant unforgiving parcel. of recycling these stories two years later on another road trip to akure.
Michael Emmanuel is an Associate Editor at Praxis Mag Online. His works have appeared on Brittle Paper, Kalahari Review, Praxis Mag Online, and in Kreative Diadem’s Rebel issue. He lives in Lagos & is a Chemistry student. IG: @the_mike_emmanuel.