My brother, my torturer (xxxxxviii)

By Josiane Kouagheu

March 27, 2026. Cité de Billes.
Douala. Cameroon. if my wall
had ears, they wouldn’t have
been in my face, waving like
crazy idols. they would have
been my guardians against
the sleeping guitars, the toxic
angels & rebels of my brother.
if only the nights had padlocks.
if only they had locked arms. i
would have been the key or i
would have found the key to open
their doors and hide. or rest. or
stay. just to run away from the
sleeping guitars, the toxic angels
& rebels. but i am living in the
world. on my the earth where
human sneer roars—i don’t
know how to conceal my pain
at their uneasy takeover. i mean
the sleeping guitars, the toxic angels& rebels of my brother. i don’t know.
and when the lights joined my pain, i
am a concert of hard-headed aches.

Meet the author

My work is the definition of orbit: it is the screenshot of what I feel.