Photo credit: torbakhopper. Source: Flickr.

And he who has none,

even that which he has

shall be taken from him.

– Mark 4:25b.

I

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Brethren,
I know this message to be true.
I was seventeen and had just lost love—
to fellows like you.
Immediately, in fulfillment of the Word,
a door of losses opened unto me.
She cited studies by Munroe et al
On why sheep could not breed with wolves,
needless lessons in genetics that made me wail into several nights,
wake too weak for lectures,
losing points.

II

Brethren,
In a paradoxical bid to regain lost fluid,
I exchanged bills for green frothing bottles.
Bottoms up—Repeat:
Bottoms up—Repeat:
Table-round applause!
It was fucking poetic, brethren,
to drink after a broken heart.
We would go rounds and rounds in this unholy communion,
the bartender our ever-indulging priest,
till I lost consciousness.

III

Brethren,
I cannot blame bottle or devil—
for my subsequent actions.
It was with clear and sober eyes,
that I searched for spaces to hole up in
Google search: holes in Ibadan: 0 results;
Google search: hole Ibadan: 2 results.
In some dark, musty room in Ikolaba,
I let myself be sucked in by strange holes,
losing innocence.

 

 

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About the Author:

Moyosore Orimoloye is a poet from Akure, Nigeria, who has had his work published in The Ilanot Review, The Rising Phoenix Review, The Kalahari Review and The Best New African Poets 2015 anthology. His poem, “Love Is a Plot Device and Your Insecticide Is Not,” co-won the Babishai Niwe Poetry Award in August 2016. He is currently an Intern Pharmacist at the Neuropsychiatric Hospital, Aro, Abeokuta. He tweets from @MoyoOrims.

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