Exorcism

I need to be exorcised of these demons, they push me beyond my limitations, breaking boundaries dredged up from ancestors long gone. I need to shut these voices, telling me I am different. What do they know? This intelligence, of what use is it to me? I don’t need it in the kitchen, where my hands have been trained to cook onugbu soup as rich as my mother’s. How can this frail waist and skinny arms birth and cuddle a child? Of what use is my head if it cannot bow in submission.

I need to be exorcised, to fall back in line, before society notices that I am different. This madness I call imagination, I need it doused. Of what use is my hand, holding a pen while the broom lies neglected. These legs, I need them to stop. Pursuing career, outrunning suitors.

I need, need to be exorcised till I am just another African woman.