Mass

What was I thinking about

on my way here? passing

the small kenkey with rabbit stew joint, passing

Elmina Fishing Harbour, where

I stood yesterday watching

as Fante fishermen mend nets—

acid cry of pied crows.

It goes on for miles. This scarred heaviness.

Above, bitumen letters

on wooden slab, female slave dungeons.

I am the last to enter. Shoeless.

The walls of this one have patches

the colour of stale turtle tank water.

The size is a bullet.

When Emmanuel, our tour guide,

lanky fellow with keen eyes,

says nearly 150 of them were crammed here every month,

the man with short dreads is the first to break.

Someone, not the middle-aged lady

whose name in Shona means give thanks,

not the man whose hands remind me of garden urns,

someone digs for words

but finds a lint-free tissue instead.

The air pales.

I imagine gaunt bodies. The coffined dark.

I touch the walls. Then again.

Whichever way I look, I am what is bent.