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THE LAWN
by Monilola Olayemi Ilupeju

Intuition has made a shelter in us. It told us the key hides under the checkered doormat. We look for it and come up empty-handed. Through the window with a brick will have to do. The shards of glass glitter in the air, get into our eyes, but we cannot look away.

It swims in us with the same stroke of a fetus in the womb. Or maybe it is the placenta: indispensable for a period of time, then disintegrating bit by bit until it falls out entirely, then grinded down into a pulver and sprinkled into green smoothies for stronger nails. With all senses blunted, we shuffle about, frantically searching for this crumb trail. We find it, finally. We follow it. It brings us to the front yard of our home. The lawn is overgrown, with weeds and wild flowers intertwining to become one. Did we lose it here?

Intuition is a god-given right, as real as death and taxes; passed down through the cracked palms of our ancestors, generation after generation, heaving, though the soft flutter of a pulse can still be found. Its faculty exists in stillness as much as in cacophony; in the individual as much as in the collective, don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. Untethered, sublime, absolute—isn’t that what she called us? Why didn’t we believe her?

It has just come to our attention that the compass malfunctioned 20 miles earlier and we may be at the wrong house, but for whatever reason we cannot find the will to turn around; the muscles in our neck have calcified, the veins too. Something is pulling us and a previously dormant heirloom vibrates under the surface, waiting for our frozen fingers to cut through the soil and excavate it, save