213

MY BODY IS A MAP THAT LEADS TO MADNESS

Spent some time this morning plucking hair strings off my chin

While standing before my mirror

Clouds of thoughts

Memories of conversations with mother

Gathered in my head

Trademarks of cultural history

Sometimes, I imagine my body as a map

The lines of my face, its loud eye bags

Firmly shaped lips reflect with certainty 

That I am my mothers

As well as my grandmothers’

The seasonal limp shows up in my hips

A chunk of flesh stands out in my left toe

The almost metallic firmness of my toenails

They remind me, I cannot erase all the parts of my father in me

But those hair strings on my chin and neck

Did not belong to my mother or father

They were Igbo, marks of my family tree

Impartial antennas of my biological identity

The debut of my conflict with this reality.