The Moments
We Carry.

My mother taught me to fold my hands and lower my voice. I am still learning which of those things I get to put down.

They called me too quiet for a Yoruba girl. I have been writing in the margins ever since, where the loud ones do not look.

I prayed for a smaller body. God sent me a louder voice instead. I am beginning to understand that was the answer.

My father said brilliant girls scare good husbands away. I decided that day I would scare every one of them.

I learned to read by candlelight when NEPA took the light. The words still arrive in my head with a flicker.

My grandmother spoke three languages and was called illiterate by men who spoke one. I am writing this in hers.

The first time I refused, my aunt said I had become difficult. I have been collecting that word like a small soft coin.

My country writes our names wrong on every form. We have learned to spell them back, slowly, until the pen agrees.