The end of Ramadan,
the fasting over, time
 
to slice bread, slit
the throats of goats.
 
From the backseat of our car
moving through Lagos streets
 
a glimpse of men 
in lantern light
 
surrounding a small creature 
meant for the knife. 
 
Darkness everywhere
except inside the circle.
 
Flash of white teeth,
someone staring in at me.
 
The heat, the flies
lifting with the sun gone
 
as if a pressing hand
has been removed.
 
We drive past as quickly
as the crowd allows.
 
A rope around its neck,
its four legs splayed,
 
the goat cries out in terror
as they drag it.
 
I am small, too, 
and easily caught.

From the air it might have been
a turquoise sowbug resting
beside a stretched-out snake
in emerald grass, that small car 
pulled to the side of the road,
jungle pressing in on either side.
A man and a woman, three skinny girls
drifting, no one going far, chewing 
sandwiches and fruit, sipping
sweet tea. Air warm and heavy 
on pale arms and legs, air
full of water and the cries of birds
deep in the trees. In the car
a jumble of dolls and books,
sticky residue of saltines and arguments
spoken and unspoken, sibling quarrels
and the father’s tamped-down rage, 
his wish to be shed of them, 
this woman and these girls 
he must carry along, turtle 
trapped by his shell. 
One child holds a toy monkey, 
stares into green. Not a clearing 
but a gradual adjustment of sight 
and the wall becomes branches, 
leaves, a space through which 
bright-hued beings swing, 
chatter to each other and are gone 
before she can say Look!, 
before Nosey can extend 
his rubber hand.