Violence

by Mary Orji

They might not see it as such.

We are all Africans, and we grew up with that violence.

We know it like we know our own names.

Our skins remember that violence

in scars both faded and vivid.

An immediate bond forms when we narrate our stories

of violence professed as ultimate love.

So yes—violence,

I understand the language.

I learnt the tricks.

I knew to curl into myself when the hand was raised

before it descended against my skin.

I knew to draw closer to the bamboo cane

for a softer impact.

More than anything, I learnt to fan their pride:

to wail loud enough to wake the world,

to look miserable enough for a shred of sympathy.

We know it like we know our own names.