Part 1: The Desert’s Edge (2024)

By the remnants of night,
when the moon spills silver
over the spine of dunes,
history feasts on the voices of every boy–
some bear the baobab on their chest as courage,
some swallow the blade of grief as strength.
It is my turn to prove I am man,
but instead, I dissolve into the bowl of my mind.

The Spirits say,
“A boy must drink his name from the rain.”

But what if the rain only washes away my identity?

 

Part 2: March Massacre (2000)

The tongues of guns stuttered
at the walls of our home–
death’s cigarettes hissed through the air.
The adhan choked in the throat of the minaret,
swallowed by the chant of fear.
In this epilepsy of chaos,
Baba’s bones were lost
in the volcanic scream of Mama’s wail.

The Spirits say,
“A man’s name is chiselled from the bones of his father.”

But what if my father’s bones were sharpened by the storms?

 

Part 3: Refugee (2002)

My spoon-sized nose caught the dust of hate on every street:
“Ape. Monkey. Terrorist.”
Mama pressed my face into the map of her palm,
and I whispered my questions into its lines:
“Allah, why this cannibal of fear?”
“Why the gnawing rodent of rejection?”
“Why the canine teeth of agony?”
“Why the pot-bellied odour of hate?”

The Spirits say,
“A man must wear his obstacles like medals on his chest.”

But what if my chest is too pregnant with exile?

 

Part 4: Riot (2005)

Homeless hate found shelter
in the cracks of our streets.
Ambulances of rage raced black bodies
into dunes of flame.
Mama–
now she is in a banquet of fire.
At night, in the twilit moon of my dreams,
I saw the roasted face of Mama.
And she whispered to me:
“Modibo, let not the reptilian eyes of pain pierce your faith.
Let no vulture of deceit seek refuge in the horn of your thoughts.
Let no whispers of your goals filter through the breast of clouds–
unprotected.”

The Spirits say,
“A man must answer the cry of his mother’s blood.”

But what if revenge is an echo without a voice?

 

Part 5: Death (2015)

I abandoned my faith in a bowl,
kissed the lips of silence,
sipped an alcohol of grief,
and swallowed a stone to sleep.
Bulletin: Maggots feasted on the dough of faith.
Autopsy: The ink suggests a seizure of the voice–
the voice convulsed like a river of blood,
the blood spoke a storm of regret.

The Spirits say,
“A man must bury his pain.”

But what if pain is the name of the grave?

 

Part 6: Rebirth (2025)

But even in the cavity of despair,
hope carves its home.
The desert stretches its voice
to the open arms of the sky,
where children splash their dreams in the dust.
Here, no woman drinks the dust of grief,
here, no man drowns in the fog of despair.
Even the minaret sings again–
its voice a hymn for tomorrow.
I see Mama’s face,
no longer an orange stain of sorrow,
but a flame of triumph guiding my feet through the pit of nights.
Her whispers are my armour:
“Modibo, rebuild the walls they shattered.
Plant seeds of truth and let them rise as a forest of change.”

The Spirits say,
“A man must leave the echo of his name on the soil.”

So I carve mine,
not with the dust of words
but with the stillness of the roots.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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