I’m sorry.  

That’s what I would say 

the words would tumble out of my mouth  

like an unpredictable avalanche, 

the feeling of a ball left in my throat would expand. 

The deafening silence would burn my ears 

your stone-cold face, expressionless  

would stain my minds walls and I 

would say sorry. 

I would mean it too.  

I would look you in the eyes 

tears leaving mine. 

And I would say sorry 

sorry I said that 

sorry I didn’t mean it 

sorry I didn't mean to 

sorry, sorry, sorry 

But why should I be sorry?  

Why do I feel the walls of despair close in? 

Why should I drown in overwhelming guilt, when I don't say 

sorry.  

Oby Jones

Rose petals crawl the sides of jagged structures, over sleek buildings 

spiraling canopies oversee busy streets 

cobalt blue contrasting with warm pink above sprawling green. 

Empty paths lined with jagged stone 

coffee tables left alone, overshadowed by a lit-up tower 

many years ago 

Cobalt blue and warm pink fade 

into a smoke-filled haze, 

jagged stones grow sharp  

a stab in the heart. 

Rose petals bleed cherry red 

over sprawling green 

rose petals sink  

a life stripped away with 

no guilt 

Oby Jones

I am freshly laid out bedsheets 

from comfort and fairy. 

I am the cupboard in the room 

black, enclosed and cold. 

I am from the willow tree 

sat isolated atop a hill, mystical with its leaves so still. 

I am from nights spent in and fishing trips 

from George and Marilyn. 

I’m from hurtful words and cold shoulders 

from smile, don’t cry! And try harder. 

I am from he who gives, to he who takes. 

I am from England and Nigeria 

from bland oatcakes, and sweet puff-puff. 

From trees fallen out of and snakes escaped, 

the pint of guinnesss was my grandfather’s taste. 

In the attic, a box full of faces lost. 

I am from moments, spread through time, laughs and cries, 

tearstains on bedsheets of comfort and fairy.

Oby Jones

 I was not born of two Nigerians.  

I was born of one. 

My ancestor's language, I can only imagine. 

I am declared whitewashed 

raised in a white family, 

they compare it to being brainwashed. 

But am I really whitewashed  

when the whites I’m compared with 

stare like they see a terrorist camouflaged? 

When the whites I am compared with ask: 

‘How do you handle such a mop?’ 

Why am I the one snubbed? 

‘Where are you from?’ 

Do I answer my city or country? 

Neither is the answer they want. 

So no, I am not whitewashed. 

I am as segregated by those who should ‘want’ me. 

Just as likely to be squashed 

even though I am “whitewashed”. 

Oby Jones