how every night, a new slice of my body is drowned in the sleeping guitars (xxviii)
January 27, 2026. Njombe. the night
has been the synonym of nightmare.
and i cannot write about the padlock.
i cannot write about the resistance.
here, i sew verses on the back of
my pain. i belittle my suffering to be
able to find the keys of my awakening.
the sleeping guitars, the toxic angels
& rebels have befriended my body.
a bloody friendship. i cannot stand the
taste of my aches. i cannot solve the
burning of my feet & their soles. i
cannot cure the bleeding of my hands
& their palms. i cannot count the cries
of my kidney & the size of my bitterness.
i cannot stop my tearful suffocation. my
body is an ocean of pain. this morning,
it behaves like mournful storms. the call
of a heavy tornado. it sprays its mortal
& untouched toxicity. it hurts. it burns.
Morning Yvonne and her mixture of threats (xiv)
the merry radio. her tenor voice.
the bleak pot. her matted dump.
the feeble voice. her tenor noise.
Yvonne is cooking another mixture
of threats. there is no beam in our
common border. Yvonne has displayed
the lumber of her pot at the peak of
the radio where she cooks her mixture
behind the black curtains of my suffering.
her tenor throat plays with the speed of
their voices. she increased. she decreased.
like a chef mixing the highlights of my pain.
she is the chef. a faithful harasser. a panacea
of unfaithful aches. Yvonne is back. the
Merry radio. her tenor voice. the bleak
pot. her matted dump. the feeble voice.
her tenor noise. Yvonne is cooking
another mixture of threats. again.
my brother, my torturer (xv)
January 28, 2026. Cité de Billes.
Douala. Cameroon. my brother has
increased the rate of his cells. he has
built the metaphor of pain inside the
late bones of my gate. he has cemented
my suffering with the bloody hands of the
sleeping guitars, the toxic angels & rebels.
he has tortured me again. this night. and i
cannot fight the air. the air is my brother’s
bigger assistant. he sprayed and my feet
lose their courage. he sprayed and my
hands lose their strength. he sprayed and
my stomach starts building a house of pain.
he sprayed and my mouth starts buying the
stains of bitterness. thousands. millions. my
brother is a torturer. my brother is my torturer.
he sprayed and my body becomes a mountain
of cries. every night. every day. i have become
the guitar of my brother. his drum. his piano.
his hands are the metaphor of my last elegy.
Josiane Kouagheu is a journalist, writer, photographer, painter and poet from Cameroon. Her works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, African Writer Magazine, Kalahari Review, Frontier Poetry, Prairie Schooner, The Nomad review, Apricity Magazine, Al Dente Journal, Double Dutch Magazine, Barzakh Magazine, New Ohio Review, Up North Lit and elsewhere.