Here is Forked Tongue, and I think she might be trying to kill me.

This one's called Forked Tongue.

When I was five, I was told my tongue was forked at the hinge, cut half down the middle, foundation to fringe.

And if I wanted to swing for a decent living, I must pick one limb or another.

That's what primary school feels like in a country that lives with the sins of another.

When the language is muscled so hard down your throat that it bloats with generational fibrosis.

When letters and verses you prayed with are prayed on like blight that prevails on a forest.

How do both of you, how do you communicate those feelings and that personal experience of being from those communities, while also trying to make work that is accessible and universal, if you can, because I...