Ahmad Adedimeji Amobi

As it Began

I like air, not because I want to breathe, but for its ability to absorb many things. The breath flowing out of the lungs with words. The smoke of engines. The flames of matches. The ability to speak into it without giving a reply. That is why I sit here, before my grandmother's flame pit, where she is buried.

When I turned everything upside down, I knew I was really turning the up side down. Like I really meant it despite the fact that I knew the bold lines of scraps it would draw on my heart. It is over and it should be over.

Air is what you breathe when you raise your voice, enmeshing every word with sombres and sorrows you've been through, you
shouted fuck off at him and dashed away from his sight, watching your back as you flung out of the house like a star dragging itself
out of the sky. You are a star.

Sometimes, scarring your body seems better. Its pain takes the place of the inner pain beating you to the ground. That is the only
thing I don't like about air. It doesn't push out the sadness roaming around your throat, like a bulge, tightening your voice box but
feeling safe there. It was my mum, she forced me to marry him. And, now, I have ended it as fast as it began.