my mother taught me how to swim

my mother taught me how to swim

she took me by the shoulder blades at five

to the only pool nearby

with tiles of cracked turquoise

and moss for sides

a grinning man with red eyes

and ash for skin offered his palm and asked

if I’d brought trunks to wear

my mother’s eyes took offence–

what do you take me for?

would I fling him fully clothed into the water?

is foolishness the way you think?

will foolishness be what you teach?

swim fatherless one swim–

she yelled from the sides

out of breathe between laps

I’d ask why she called me

fatherless

because she was fatherless too

she said–

enough talking

swim swim swim

till every sunday

and monday morning

the grinning man

became the one who taught me

things men should know

like how to tread

with dread between your fingers and go

my mother taught me how to swim

she who had never entered a pool

placed her lips as close to the water as she dared

and said

my money! it must not waste!

so even when my arms ached and

my feet curled into cramp and I longed to

cradle my head between laps

let go of the edge - she said

remove your fingers from that ledge

swim swim swim

and when I had my children,

my first one, I said to my mother–

I know now why you made me swim

so full of uncertainty this handling of another life

I am up all night and biting 

the air is so full of all the things

that can kill them that

I am longing to leave

I am in London now

I said to her –and deal with death

rarely

unlike you, in lagos

you who raised me, a child, in the same place

where younger brothers senselessly die–

I hear her earrings as her head shakes

you remember my

younger brother–she said–

the one

who died in a car when you were five?

he did not just hit the barricade of the expressway and

smash into pieces

but he hit the barricade of the expressway

that was also a bridge and

he and his car and his pieces tumbled like stones into the

lagoon

And remember - she said -

unlike you, fatherless one, I had a father once

I had a father but he left me; he died

so now that you are a father

now that you carry sleeping life in the brook of your arm

choose to stay

do not to leave another man

to teach your child

how to swim

and when my wife left me

and my children spoke to me only on the phone

with words on stilts

and tongues dammed up with accusations

and my job at a quiet certain end

and I five years under an endless watery black

I went back to lagos, back home for one last time

I told my mother I was there to see the sun

and with her milky eyes she said nothing

till she heard my back was at the door

and said - remember oh fatherless one,

unlike you I had

a father once but he died

he went with pockets heavy into the lake at night

and my brother

remember, the one who died in a car when you were five

tumbled into the lagoon

on the left from the far, far right side

my son, my lips are as close to the water as I dare

take your hands off that ledge

remove fingers from the edge

swim swim swim.

                                                 anjola