Poetry: The Fifth Drop
By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon
YOU are sitting on the edge
of my mattress, Ken. Your head
resting too close to your shoulder,
and your clothes smell of the wet
lime they threw in the pit to melt
your skin. I can see the purple
rope-burn around your throat.
I was seven, Ken. I was seven
when they took you to the courtyard
in Port Harcourt, and the man
on the radio said the gallows
kept jamming. They had to drag
your body back up the wooden steps.
Four times, Ken. Four times. Each time,
the rope had tightened around your throat,
your face darkening, your eyes bulging
from their sockets, the whites turning
red as the vessels burst. Your tongue
swelled against your teeth; you bit it
half-open. Blood dried on your chin
while your legs kicked and jerked
in the empty air. You had to look
at the executioner, Ken, and beg him
to finish it because the rope was only
chewing through your meat without
snapping the bone. The soldier had to
grease the trapdoor to make the iron slide.
Now, Ken, I am thirty-eight. I am the one
who works with that grease; a mechanic,
scrubbing the same black oil from under
my nails, crawling under the Prados of the men
who let your body hang until the weight
of your boots finally tore your spine apart.
Yesterday, Ken, the judge brought his car
to my shed. I changed his brakes.
I touched the steering wheel
his clean fingers touch. When he threw
the money on the ground, I should have spat.
But I picked it up, wiped the grease on my trousers,
and said, “Thank you, sir.”
I took the price of your blood
and bought bread
for my daughter.
Don’t look at me like that, Ken. Please,
turn
your head away. The room is dark,
but your eyes are still wide open.
Outside, the neighbourhood generators
are screaming like the crowd that stood
outside the prison walls while you choked.
My daughter is sleeping on the floor mat,
her little throat rattling from the black smoke
drifting in from the oil fields. I look
at her neck, and then I look at your broken
collarbone, Ken, and my stomach turns.
I want to tear my skin off. I am crying
into my hands, sobbing so hard my ribs
are aching.
Ken, look at me… just look at me,
tightening the knot around my child’s neck.
