Death, the dressmaker 

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Of all we are,
aspire to be, our desired
attributions, what we

truly desire is a perfect
dressmaker who understands
our bodies, and its moods,

so that when the time
comes – sunrise or sunset – the
dress is made, and fits
the occasion. And if there’s

an annoying tear or loose
thread, the dressmaker can
be beckoned immediately

to save us from unnecessary
embarrassment, the annoyance
of not exiting in style. All we
want deep down is that

perfect dressmaker who
knows when the time is nigh,
and makes that one, final
dress that tells our full

story, and announces that
we, too, were once here, died
severally, and resurrected so
many times until that one

day when a dressmaker who
neither spoke nor understood
our language, or the arrangement
regarding lay-by payment, came
knocking, to ask

for the balance of what was
owed on the last dress.

Also by Babatunde Fagbayibo


Dad's car


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