At Mallam station, there’s a chicken coop
and a bluetooth speaker: a man promising
deliverance. He calls me and tells
me a story of the lucky anointing oil he sells.
He looks into my eyes, almost beyond me
and says

there are two types of witches,
the one that flies at night and the one that lives
in your home and walks and eats and smiles with you

but they cannot do anything to you.
He closes his eyes and I close mine with him
and I say

Amen. 

Before I open mine, I see my mother and my brother
and my father. Who could be the culprit?
My brother asks for permission before going to the bathroom
talk of getting on a broom to fly.  My mother whispers in her sleep
my father works overtime, overnight in America.
I hesitate to ask about the length of the broom, whether
it is made of palm branches or plastic fibers.
He says 

look at this oil 

and I look, and
he says 

there is a woman who used this on her door
when she woke up she saw a bird, a bird like a vulture,
my sister, I won’t lie to you, 

he touches my shoulder, 

the pete flew from her gate to the street,
turned into a goat–this is what the oil can do

I hold myself in confusion
I need a miracle now more than laughter
I cannot tell the difference between comedy
and poverty. I have learned a good story can keep you alive.
I ask him, 

how much is the oil?

He holds the microphone tighter,
smells the cocoa butter from my skin
sees from the sweat on my brows
that I do not live here
he doesn’t know
I cannot live there
Only 50 cedis.
A miracle for $5 dollars,
how many will I need

for a visa to the U.S. ?