ABSTRACT
If I speak of Africa today I say “I don’t know.” I explain how it’s all a long time ago. I do not admit I’ve been claimed. Snared. I don’t tell anyone that I call out to a faith healer, a witchdoctor, a charlatan. I call out to her in my dreams and wake with her name on my lips. Madame Johnson. I search for the trail of what prompted the call but it has gone. All I have is the movement of my lips. When I reach to touch them, it’s as if I can feel the edges of a bottle cap with oil in it.
