the signal is best when the rest of the street
is already sleeping,
when mothers have finished shouting
their last prayers into the rafters.
i sit on the porcelain edge of the bidet,
the screen glow making a small blue chapel
out of the bathroom tiles.
the app asks for my location.
i tell it abuja, nigeria.
i tell it two kilometers away.
my thumb drags the grid upward,
once, & then again.
because the night opened its wide,
empty hands
& filled them with nothing but hours,
i jump into a waterless well.
click—
another torso,
click—
another soul,
click—
floating past my screen.
a profile appears with no face,
only an image of a black car wheel & a name
that is just an initial.
under interests, it says clean & masc pls.
he sends a message: are you discreet?
which is the modern way of asking:
are you ready to die a little bit
without making
a sound?
i look at my feet on the cold terrazzo floor.
my toes are the exact shape
of my grandfather’s.
a long line of men who crossed rivers on foot,
who killed leopards with flintlock guns.
& here i am, at the end of this bloodline,
trembling in the dark
because a stranger across the highway
asked if i know how to lock a door
& keep a secret.
the same god who watches the leopard fall
watches me type yes.
