This poem begins with our mothers emanating from rooms
Of silenced dreams till they appear in two outfits.
In white simí and bùrèsíà on our fathers’ beds moaning.
& in black ìró and bùbá beside our fathers’ graves mourning.

The flawed and weak selves of ours
Evade from these events till all we can do is vent.
Like a limbless phoenix rising from the ashes of mere pigeons,
The eloquent horses in us are supposed to babel.

Our thoughts, their enemies.
Our carefully written assessments, their rejections.
Now, it seems we will have to become our fathers
Which our mothers warn us against in the corners of their kitchens
– Paradigms of cheats.

Look at us, embodiments of our fathers’ faces.
Aderogba can perfectly mimic the sagging voice and tone of his father.
Our fathers’ physiques, our present identities.
But can we fan the ego of our founding fathers?
Their failures are still achievements in our lifetime.
Wale tried having two girlfriends, ended up on a combined first date with the second.

***

More of these epithets in parables or metaphors?
But dear, this is all I have unto me; the world is mean.
The pen is mightier than our voices.

The palm wine drunkard submerges my boys in inks,
Minus-ing a point from each smile on our faces,
Telling lies about sincerity and punching into our abdomens
That our fathers are mere definitions of the pauper and the unseens.
Maybe indeed the palm wine drunkard deems our future to be anything but dim.

***

Fathers, we submit unto you.
We are children of lesser gods.
That this god-forsaken palm wine drunkard said to us,

“Do all you want, you sons of the cursed,
You all are toys passing through our tables,
Ruining our days with entitlement
When did the thorns count themselves as part of the rose?
Will you get out of my office?!”

Dear Fathers, we are done.
They say again, we were never meant to be beautiful.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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