I stopped breathing.
For three minutes, I did not allow oxygen in.
But then my lungs sang songs of sorrow
As it grieved the absence of its beloved.
Then I came back to life
Surprising the white coats,
Who were cooking words to break the news of my death.
It all started fifteen rains and harmattans before.

But first, you must know of my home
I come from Ilé Ẹkún,
Where fists meet cracking bones and sputtering blood.
And when I asked Mama
"Why do we live in a home of tears?"
She tells me that Baba is not a bad man,
He knows no other way to declare his love.
And she weeps as she tells me of a love expressed with fists and whips
"A woman must be patient," Mama whispered urgently into my ears.

Some time ago,
On a sunny day, five years short of a score,
I slipped on my bejewelled heels
And a flowing gown of endless white.
I wore a tiara that weighed a thousand carats beneath my bridal veil.
I beamed at the world, ready to runoff with my beloved.
For years I have dreamt of escaping Ilé Ẹkún
And yearned for a home
Where laughter lived upon the lips of every occupant.

I lived in paradise for six months of rain
Then harmattan came, and my knight turned cold.
It all began with a slap; jaw-tearing
And a scream; ear-rending.
But you must understand that my Àmàlà had lumps
And he said sorry with a kiss and car,
That never happened in Ilé Ẹkún, despite the smashing blows and burning whips
But we were getting there, my knight and I.

A sheet of paper from a white coat averted my beloved's rage,
After all, it declared him a real man.
But the dry season came and fired up his anger,
His blows and kicks drew blood
Vengefully eliminating from my womb, the evidence of his manhood.
"I lost my footing and rolled down the stairs." I told the white coats
But their eyes betrayed their disbelief.

That night, my knight wept of his regret.
He knelt by my bed and raised his hands in supplication for forgiveness,
I had no choice but to coddle him, for he wept like a baby,
So much that my heart cried along with him.
You must understand, that the fault belongs not to my knight,
My body was flat and shapeless.
You see, a woman must have breasts large enough to spill from the palms of her beloved
And her buttocks must cushion his thighs from bones of her hips.

Within a year, wolf whistles followed me down the street
And men panted after me like hungry dogs.
The herbs had succeeded in pushing out the tissues that refused to grow.
But we have now graduated, my knight and I.
He no longer dolled blows
But hot irons and whips.
I 'lost my footing' again and got a limp.
My womb wept bitterly as she had to let go off several babies
But you must understand! A woman must be patient.

But then a jack hammer took my breathe away,
For three minutes, I stopped breathing
I'm laying on this narrow bed looking at the bleached walls
Though my father was long dead,
And I can barely open my eyes
My mother still sings her mantra at my bedside
"A woman must be patient."

But the woman whose heels sang the "koi koi" song tells me that I have to leave,
She tells me my beloved is a monster.
But leave, to where?
My radiant skin has been replaced with wrinkles
And my unrivalled gait, a limp.
Though they rejoice at my resurrection,
I can feel death finding his way back,
Promising me a room in Ilé È̩rín
And I welcome him with open arms.
Grateful that I have no daughter I could have told that, "a woman must be patient".

Glossary:
Ilé Ẹkún: Home of tears
Ilé È̩rín: Home of laughter