On some nights I was grief; penniless wretch.
And I stole all the joy hanging freely.
I knifed through the sea in my bamboo ketch,
Hoping for an ample bowl of mealie.
When I arrived from my lengthy sojourn,
I pursued a life of pragmatism.
My tryst with love, I could only adjourn,
I told myself as an aphorism.
That’s what a man thinks when the wind blows west,
And thinks of the rain as his only guest.

And for a time, I did not see your face,
Nor the pink flashing of your lip balm trails.
Perhaps you were lost somewhere in deep space,
Or you and your lover set sail for Wales.
But there I was, at the base of a hill,
In the city of brooding Ibadan.
When all at once the world around fell still—
You sat behind me, like a pretty swan.
I did not feel anything at the time,
But love began seething in that warm clime.

I knew the feeling of unraveling—
To perish like dry crackers in clutched hands.
Looking back now, it is sweet and baffling,
Stomach unwinding, sounding like a banns.
Every stitch that secures head to torso,
Suddenly goes limp. Drowned in the Niger.
The quintessence that blazed in rising dough,
was pounded to dust. Like every sinner.
And I melted in my sister’s conscience,
Seeping through her brain in sour abundance.

On one of those days in that dusty school,
When the sky was set on putting to bed.
The sands grew dark, and the clouds became cruel.
When you called me to join your zippy sled.
And on we went, snaking through bad traffic—
I sat there wondering if it was real.
You asked how I was; I turned aphasic,
In response, I let out a piercing squeal.
I watched beads of raindrops eat each other,
In the war of panes. They didn’t suffer.





Photo by Javardh on Unsplash