When wet, paper stretches. The air here is humid. Nigeria sighs too much and sighs the right amount. I haze the paper with exhales. Soak my thighs with fabric of Ankara. Squeeze glue to his hair, squeeze glue to my palms. Inertia of the limbs. Saturate brick with (the) residue of red caught in the act of its burning. Black solids. Charcoal is too much of the truth. Discomfort. My skin fails to translate ‘nwantintin’, spreads instead into a laughter of a mute mustard kind. I explain to a great grandmother I do not have why his pulse, although the language of sand, is one I understand. I colour my sand with pencils. I collage my woman on the veneer of the west, ply strips of Enugu, suck the inhale of salmon till it is dry. There is rest here. The bars stop the outside from coming in. It is always hot in this place. Finely ground air falls to the floor, I dust it off the soles of my feet. It stains everything a fading orange. All the burning in the world could not shift the pinks of our breathing.