You teased, one day, saying that I am an àbíkú. I first smiled, then I frowned, and the room felt smaller, heated. So I left. Your àgbàdá, the flaxen dotted one, danced with the breezing room. A gourd shook at the far right corner courtesy of a lizard; outside, a rooster reminded me of the passage of time and silence; the voice of an iya ológì, afar, strewed around me, slicing itself into bits and pieces, and then settling in my ears. But I was unconcerned, at least, I pretended to not notice all these. Because I am a very noticing person, and you know.

When I passed, the afternoon sun kissing my indigenous cheeks, I hesitated; you will come and apologize, I had said in my heart but you did not. From your mouth, your laughter floated and met me outside, and my name floated behind, too. But it suddenly sounded untasteful from you. So my anger soared like an eagle attempting crazier altitudes, and I left completely, promising myself no returning to this ungrateful place and body.

In the evening, under the motherly arms of the tree, on the mat, Iyiade tapped my thighs and said something about dinner. I flared, I burned, and the burning touched my little sister's body, and it scalded her for a very long time because she began to stand aloof, reticent to me even though I told her sorry.

Then far into the night, when mother had ensured the restless smoothness of the àmàlà unlike me, I found my brain humming the tune of your skin, how it revamped the room with your scent. I held my nose like it was coming into me through it, but it got stronger, then stronger, then stronger, and I willed myself to sleep.

It was another bad thing to do, to sleep away from your heart's desire. Because it will invade dreams, and here will be crueler; there will be no heading out like the afternoon. You invaded my dream. In the dream, you came and grabbed my waist, the beads that circled it jiggled in the process and I chuckled. You did not chuckle. And so I quieted.

We swayed, with your hard face peering at something behind me. And I looked behind myself twice, twice, and I saw nothing but the moving mats and the darkness. And you said you were sorry. Sorry because you called me an àbíkú. And I woke up to my mother's hand sanitizing my face with a slightly cold water; it was morning, a morning without you.