Paula Willie-Okafor
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Paula Willie-Okafor (she/her) is a student of the University of Nigeria. Her work has appeared in Praxis Magazine and The Muse (A Journal of Critical and Creative Writing), Nsukka. She enjoys photography, comics, social commentary and hanging out with her sisters. She hopes to be a teacher.
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Before fire, her lips were not sunken
(An ode to Leah Sharibu)
Come girl residue
womaned out thing
woven into a night perforated
Girl who learned unstitched blood & tears
& rust & the promise of sudden stillness
blackness & rust
the crust of lostness
teethed gentle
Do you sometimes wonder if you had
said the words halved your tongue
tasted (unnamable)
learned to arrange the broken pretty
Or did you know it took too long
piecing and the body knew its
grafted bits anyway the heft of them
Come girl & gather
Your mother does not leave you unsung
she kneads you into odes mangled
Sing prayers in contralto
sing amen amen
Come girl residue
womaned out thing
woven into a night perforated
Girl who learned unstitched blood & tears
& rust & the promise of sudden stillness
blackness & rust
the crust of lostness
teethed gentle
Do you sometimes wonder if you had
said the words halved your tongue
tasted (unnamable)
learned to arrange the broken pretty
Or did you know it took too long
piecing and the body knew its
grafted bits anyway the heft of them
Come girl & gather
Your mother does not leave you unsung
she kneads you into odes mangled
Sing prayers in contralto
sing amen amen
Commentary
Paula on "Before fire, her lips were not sunken":
I remember first reading about Leah Sharibu in a newspaper. She stayed on my mind for several weeks after; I wanted to understand the weight of what she did, refusing to denounce her faith in the face of what must have been unspeakable terror. That sort of strength, I think, is otherworldly, past our humanity and our frailty, and yet resides in a place that could only be human, a place I believe God too resides. I constantly pictured myself in that position and every scenario had me succumbing, because what other choice is there? Leah’s story resonated with me for two reasons, one being simply because she is incredible. The other is she helped me realize that because she, a girl like me, had that sort of courage, I had to have it too. It is an unsettling and beautiful discovery. For me, this poem is not centered on the Boko Haram threats or religious tensions in my country. It is does not seek to outline the experience of being at the mercy of terrorists, the depth of which I will never understand and which I could therefore never express. It is also by no means undermining the experience of the 109 other girls, whose resilience I stand in awe of. I only wanted to honor an incredible girl’s bravery in the little way I knew how.
EIC Christine Taylor on "Before fire, her lips were not sunken":
Every time I read Paula’s poem, I get chills, and yes, one cannot (and should not) divorce the work from its greater context of the violence that Boko Haram has inflicted on women in Nigeria. But the chilling part of this poem for me is the personal connection that Paula infuses into the poem, the reaching out to tie herself to Leah and to honor her courage in standing up for her faith. One of this poem’s resonating questions for me is, “What does it mean to keep ourselves whole?” I don’t know that this question has an answer, or maybe the answer shifts depending on the situation. But I do know that as a black woman, I find myself having to answer this question to greater and lesser extents practically every day. I often wonder if my voice saves or betrays me. So, this is where I have entered Paula’s poem, yet there are so many entry points in this work, hence why we decided to feature it in this issue.
I remember first reading about Leah Sharibu in a newspaper. She stayed on my mind for several weeks after; I wanted to understand the weight of what she did, refusing to denounce her faith in the face of what must have been unspeakable terror. That sort of strength, I think, is otherworldly, past our humanity and our frailty, and yet resides in a place that could only be human, a place I believe God too resides. I constantly pictured myself in that position and every scenario had me succumbing, because what other choice is there? Leah’s story resonated with me for two reasons, one being simply because she is incredible. The other is she helped me realize that because she, a girl like me, had that sort of courage, I had to have it too. It is an unsettling and beautiful discovery. For me, this poem is not centered on the Boko Haram threats or religious tensions in my country. It is does not seek to outline the experience of being at the mercy of terrorists, the depth of which I will never understand and which I could therefore never express. It is also by no means undermining the experience of the 109 other girls, whose resilience I stand in awe of. I only wanted to honor an incredible girl’s bravery in the little way I knew how.
EIC Christine Taylor on "Before fire, her lips were not sunken":
Every time I read Paula’s poem, I get chills, and yes, one cannot (and should not) divorce the work from its greater context of the violence that Boko Haram has inflicted on women in Nigeria. But the chilling part of this poem for me is the personal connection that Paula infuses into the poem, the reaching out to tie herself to Leah and to honor her courage in standing up for her faith. One of this poem’s resonating questions for me is, “What does it mean to keep ourselves whole?” I don’t know that this question has an answer, or maybe the answer shifts depending on the situation. But I do know that as a black woman, I find myself having to answer this question to greater and lesser extents practically every day. I often wonder if my voice saves or betrays me. So, this is where I have entered Paula’s poem, yet there are so many entry points in this work, hence why we decided to feature it in this issue.
