In Jos’ Jaws

By Majekodunmi O. Ebhohon

THEY lie before me—
my nightmare
in a black nylon bag.

When I unzipped it,
heat surged first—
trapped heat,
like boiled yam
left too long in the pot.

Then… the smell.

Like meat that turned from the fire
to embrace rot.

I hooked my fingers under his shirt.
I tugged.

It resisted.

I wrestled again. Harder.
The cloth clung to him,
hoisting him a little
before slumping back.

My fingers skidded. 
My nails… packed red.

They pleaded, _“Mama, don’t touch.”_

But my hands latched onto him
before the words could reach.

I scoured his face.

Dust. 
Dry blood
splitting at the edges.

A small line where the bullet bit.
Neat.
Like a tailor’s mark.

I fastened my lips there.
Metal stung my tongue.

His mouth gaped.
No breath stirred my cheek.
No word crossed over.

Just that open— 
clutching something
that never escaped.

His left hand held on to itself.
I pried the fingers apart.

Inside— 
a piece of paper.
Wet.
Torn.

The letters had broken loose, 
blue lines bleeding into each other 
until nothing remained.

I called his name.

Low— 
the way I stand by the door 
and call him
when the food is ready.

His chest lay flat under my palm. 
His lashes ignored the perambulating breeze.

The small scar on his chin 
sat there, quiet, 
as if waiting
for him to wake into it.

Around me, men mumbled.
Shoes scraped the floor.

A fly settled on his ear.
I waved it off.
It circled.
It returned.

My knees sank into the ground.

Cold drilled through the cement 
into my bones.

My wrapper drank from the floor.
It clung to my thighs.

They urged, _“Mama, you have to be strong.”_

I unfolded my palms— 
nothing in them 
but smell and lines.

I rubbed them together. 
Only streaks.

My breasts tightened…
milk leaks too early.

My back hunched forward, 
aching for weight.

At home, his mat waits.
Pressed in the middle.
Still cradling his shape.

Who will I cook for now?

Who will knock the pot lid sideways
and laugh?

Who will stretch his legs
into my space at night
and say, _“Shift small, Mama”?_

They robbed me of him twice.

Once with the bullet.
And again
with a zipped bag.

Now I shrivel here
with the smell still staining my fingers.

I grind them together.
It does not go.
It will not go.

…Or will it go?

I sleep,
I see the hole again.

I wake,
I am still his mother.

Tell me—
what do I do
with a body that won’t forget
the weight of a child
my hands can no longer find?

Tell me…
Please tell me.