Masquerade

by O.O. Sangoyomi

Memory is Master of Death, the chink in his armour of conceit. —Wọlé Ṣóyínká, Death and the King’s Horseman

“You listen to her tale One her teacher always told Of roads his son walked Roads paved with petals of gold See them bloom, see them shine See this garden become a sky With a thousand tiny suns It’s no lie, it’s no lie Light the world through the night Keep this glow inside your heart Flowers wilt, lands dwindle But survival is in the art.”

I forced myself to keep laughing.

“You, who holds death like a kiss.”

I knew who he was: the same as me. He waged wars, ravaged entire villages, and killed countless people. And I committed an act equally as violent: I loved him.