Chronicles of Burning Self
Three stars emerged from the night sky and
you remembered how once you:
i.
held a live coal in between your fingers. Seconds
passed and you felt like Iron Man. Till evidence of
your sorry mortality began to unveil in wraps of rapid
reflexes. You were like a waft of smoke dancing into
deep seas of depression. The thing about flames is
that, it brightens you up and keeps your smiles intact.
ii.
thought burning yourself was okay till your ears were
pricked by pins— for the good of your soul. With Zion’s
luck, your wobbly legs strengthened. Your salvage
manifested through the extrusion of life from the pulpit—
the encounter with words from the scriptures. A ray of relief.
iii.
walked in timid shadows, leaving not a trace of fortitude.
After your illumination, your shadow rejuvenated with the
wind bearing an incense-fragrant smell. Happy, what is to
come. You had become that glow stick your world needed.
An Iroko Flourishes On My Umbilical Cord Somewhere In Igbere
The last time I heard the wind whisper to me loud and clear
was on a day in December 2022— I stood feet astride a mound
of loam, digging up earth which would birth bounty soon.
The sound came in soft trills bearing a semblance of my mother’s
lullabies— a softness that made my heart a pudding for goodness.
My mother expelled scanty words knitted together in alluringness.
In her words, my fetal connection was cut and merged with nature.
The threads mixed with blood— my blood, and became a soul. The
Cord buried deep into the Igbere earth— a component of my soul,
Brandishes an arcane aura meant for my being alone. The culture
Demanded a landmark hence the sprouting of a seedling.
I stood feet astride a mound of loam facing the Iroko that sparkled from
the nurturing of my cord. Beneath the earth laid evidence that Igbere and I are one.
Japalaria
My mind is haemorrhagic.
Fun fact: It bleeds lethargic words from the mouth of
a vulture. This is because, in my country, we take desperation
for breakfast; chewing on its skeleton and swallowing its dry
juices. The vulture first has its own share of gluttony and
leaves us with meagre carcasses.
In my country, the female anopheles’ bite is no match for the
realisation that stings us day and night; that sucks up hope and
leaves us stranded like trashed coconut shells. It is no news that
there is a cankerworm-like endemic that we are at the mercy of.
A sickness which pushes a countryman to auction off his properties
like someone on the run. Compatriots are not compatrioting anymore.
A boy graduates and trudges overseas for “greener pastures”. Every day,
I awake to a “Just moved to Hertfordshire” post on Facebook.
An owl is mean-faced, sitting atop my roof. Tomorrow, my neighbour is
smiley-faced, enroute to the land of the Caucasians.
