Writing with Juliet Iwelunmor

I choose to flare, choose sunrise, and anything else the sky brings. I choose rain failing out of the hands of God, choose still the skies afterwards, the trees and all it shuffles, the beetles burrowing deep into the earth, and little boys who voice sound like the cadence of mockingbirds. I choose all these things with their sizzle and clap, and if it means I would fail again, at least I would learn how to shake this life like a butterfly.

We all hide behind masks. Some move visible than others. My own is a mask that has me believing at times that I am a market woman. Almost like in another lifetime I sold something at a market. I have been told by my late Uncle and Nnem that I was a reincarnation of my uncle’s mother. She had numerous children and sold food at the market. She didn’t go to school and vowed that if she ever returned, she would go to the highest of schools. I feel like I have done that. Done all I said I would do if the story is true. Yet, these days I long for that part of my life line that sold something at a market. I have no clue as to why but if the opportunity should ever arise, I guess I’m prepared to flare or fail in whatever marketplace I find myself in.