Transit | Wole Oguntola | Poetry
I died in Seville. The stone remembers. They buried me under the cathedral floor where gold from my father’s debt still sweats through the mortar. Four hundred years of damp. I came back through Lagos heat, no passport. Customs asked for my declaration form. I said: _I am the goods._ They laughed, stamped my […]
Black News 
I died in Seville. The stone remembers. They buried me under the cathedral floor where gold from my father’s debt still sweats through the mortar. Four hundred years of damp. I came back through Lagos heat, no passport. Customs asked for my declaration form. I said: _I am the goods._ They laughed, stamped my […]
