Occupied

By Majekodunmi Ebhohon

THEY are still working
on the table.

One person says,
the plates should be closer,
another says
there is no space for elbows.
Someone checks the time
on a phone,
then checks it again,
as if the numbers
might notice their tardiness.

A woman is upset
about the ice.
She keeps opening the freezer,
letting the cold
spill out onto the floor,
counting the cubes
with her fingers.
Another says
the drinks will be fine.
They are not fine yet.

Someone is late.
A voice begins a lecture
on punctuality.
Another says, calm down,
we are almost there.

The cake is brought out,
taken back in,
brought out again.
A finger drags
through the icing
by mistake.
There is a short silence.
Then an argument
about whether it can be fixed.

I am sitting
in a plastic chair
by the wall,
away from the table,
my name already written
on the cake.

My hands are empty.
I place them
on my thighs
to give them
something to do.

I think
about the ground;
the weight of soil,
how it presses evenly,
layer after layer.

I imagine lying there,
my back
against packed earth,
my ribs
no longer lifting.
I wonder
if it is cool all the time,
or only at first.
I wonder
if the body notices
when the light
stops arriving.

Behind me,
someone is complaining
about the music.
The speaker
isn’t loud enough.
The speaker
is too loud.
A song is skipped
halfway through.

I think about
the space underground.
How narrow it is.
How exact.
No extra room
for opinions.

Someone calls my name
to ask
where the candles are.
I point
to the cupboard.
They were there
the whole time.

I wonder
if there is silence
in the grave,
or just
the absence
of interruption.
No phone vibrating.
No one correcting
the arrangement.

At the table,
two people argue
over who did more work.
One says,
I stayed up all night.
The other says,
so did I.
They are both tired.
They both want it
to be perfect.

I watch them lean in,
voices raised,
hands moving fast.

I imagine my body
staying still
for once,
no need to respond,
no need to explain.

Someone asks me
if I’m okay.

I say
yes.

The cake is finally placed
at the center.
The candles are lit.
Everyone steps back
to admire it.

I sit where I am,
thinking how strange it is
to be celebrated
for moving one year closer
to a place
that asks nothing of me.

They begin
to sing.

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* Ebhohon, a Nigerian poet and playwright, is the author of ‘The Great Delusion’, winner of ANA Prize for Drama 2025