In the Hollow of Grief.
Art from Europeana on Unsplash.
In the Hollow of Grief.
It’s been seven years since night
dispossessed me & claimed you as its own,
your eyes remain forever bland, forever closed to dawn.
At your grave, the earth opened its mouth
widely & swallowed your flesh with greed.
There, in our grief, we wept—untethered to nothingness,
as if our sorrows
could have scalded the earth
that snatched you from us.
Father, the loss still writhes in-between the hollowness of memory; it still t[r]ickles down
my heart
like the minute hand of a clock
prodding itself towards the next minutes.
Open my heart,
plunge your hands in.
Do you see the hollow of my grief?
Call it loss or love,
they both begin with the same letter,
but end on different paths.
Yet, on this divergent path,
the world heralds my name,
& I, a warrior, clad in armor of valor, brave battles that exude sorrow.
I must contain the ache of
solitude that unlocks the
chamber of remembrance; I must seal the window that
wafts the fragrance of your presence.
But remembering is medicine. An antidote to blurring moments.
Photo by Yi ZhU on Unsplash.
Genesis.
All journeys through life begin with a story,
and mine began with a boy, wide-eyed,
peering through the keyhole of dusty streets,
past the congregation of weary buildings,
their rooftops scarred by stinging seasons
of sun and sorrow. At Mushin, far from the glow
and glitter of Lagos Island, we learned to sip
sweetness from the bitter rind of unripe agbalumo,
to craft light from the darkness in our shadows.
Each dawn, the sky peeled open like a ripe mango,
spilling soft light onto our naked bodies. We danced
in the courtyard, baptizing each other with spits from
our laughter before school summoned us. Before
Father’s voice herded me toward the akara woman,
her hands sculpting golden orbs from the bubbles of
oil. Her fingers, slick with history, waved blessings
at students who would return hungry but hopeful.
By evening, as the sun folded itself into sleep,
so did the little boys we were. Morning found us in
innocence, but night eagerly draped us in labor’s
hands. We poured into the streets, balancing sachets
of pure water on creased, curved cloth, our heads
like pedestals for survival. We walked the night,
our pockets swollen with wrinkled notes,
our smiles wide enough to swallow hunger.
Art from the New York Public Library on Unsplash.
Exorcism.
At Iyana Iba market, the sun peered in silence.
A mute witness to the restless tide of bodies.
Koropes prowled for passengers, & eyes darted,
dodging the ghostly lurks of tireless traffic police.
Feet quickened, shuffling like scattered seeds
& buyers waged wars over stacks of tired goods.
Across the street, a crowd had gathered
becoming a wall of bodies thick with judgment.
And there you could see a body turning into
a trembling precipice. I saw you—your face
swollen into grotesque ridges, blood coursing
down like streaks of waterfall on a seated rock.
It flowed down the dark caverns of your mouth.
& a confession slithered from your lips,
grinding a faint whisper against the wind.
It was not a plea, but a protest because
your breath rose like incense, swearing
that the man they saw was the ghost of
your past. But ghosts are not forgiven here.
They are hunted & chased like prey through
the alleyways of memory, until the body is
totally made pure.
A young man, from the shadows, staggered
forward. His hands were heavy with worn-out
tires. The others baptized your skin in fuel,
leaving your body under an anointing of fire.
I heard the tongues of judgment noisier than
mercy—a holy purge in the name of justice.
Some mournful minutes later, the sirens wailed,
too late to save, & too soon to forget—arriving
only to sweep away the ashes of another exorcism.
Photo by Nguyễn Hiệp on Unsplash.
Genesis 2.
After we were spun out of the wheel
of comfort, we trudged into the world in
search of hope(s) like labouring ants to
assuage the growling in our stomachs.
After we walked through the bustling
streets scouring the walls for vacancies
our bodies wore weariness like garments
& we took the only work we saw at the
market, we unloaded goods for traders
who flocked in to sell, we relieved shoppers
of their loads along roads that breathed dust
& this was how we ate our daily bread.
& here as the months ran their race,
we grew weary of the lumps of veins
bulging on our limbs, the skin blackened
from the harsh rays of sunlight, yet
every moment became testaments
of our becoming memories to
show the world in the future how
we lived in a little world full of
slopes before hopes are found.
Art by Patryk Rejdych on Unsplash.
Dear Boy.
For the Suicidal
Imagine your absence: a rope, tethered,
pressing your nape, & you, unbecoming.
Unbecoming to the slither of the rope.
Imagine it’s dawn after you vanish from
the world you deem grievous. The kettle
lies motionless. The cup awaits heat it
will not know again. The spoon, untouched,
sits silently beside it.
Imagine the morning yawning your name like
rumour into the streets. The house, loud with
grief, & your mother—wrung red-eyed & collapsed.
Your father—half-dead beside your body.
Your little sister—still asleep, unaware
of the silence she has possessed.
Imagine you are more magnificent
than the promise of grief. You are joy
outliving the ache. You are motion,
fluid, even beyond the storm.