A wonderful gift
Afolabi Damilare’s portrait of Moyo Okediji.
Thanks for this wonderful gift, Afolabi
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I’m a refugee
I’m a refugee
An exile, a stranger
In a gold residence.
Home died decades away.
Those who opened their door
To welcome my wandering legs
Point to me their tables
decked with wine and sweetbread.
Citruses
Don’t pick an orange
for its enormous size.
The fatness of the citrus
is not a sign of its sweetness.
I’ve seen large oranges
that are firm and juiceless
And I’ve eaten tiny ones
so sweet and sumptuous
Lyrics of Joy.
Title: Lyrics of JoyMedium: acrylic on canvasDate: 2018Where art you joythat we all seek youand find you not?Joy is in eating less,and eating carefully, simply.Joy lives in giving more,Title: Lyrics of JoyMedium: acrylic on canvasDate: 2018Where art you joythat we all seek youand find you not?Joy is in eating less,and eating carefully, simply.Joy lives in giving more,
Captive No More
Captive No More
1
What you are reading is not poetry. It is not fiction. It is my true family history.
I am an ascendant from slavery. Yes.
It means I am a descendant of enslaved bodies. Yes.
Inside me, they locked iron collars,
leg fetters, and hand lockers. Yes.
Yes. Does it sound weird? Yes.
Slavery was real in Africa. Yes
Africa was the Ground Zero of slavery. Yes.
Dear Kicking Fetus
Dear Kicking Fetus
For Saidiya Hartman***
Why kick your mother
so hard, so relentless
right in the center
of her tender navel?
Is there something
you know about life,
about the impious ways
AMERICANA AT OKADA PARK
AMERICANA AT OKADA PARK
“You fine o. You wan marry Okada?”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, nau. Mek Americana marry Okada.”
“What?”
“Lekki marry Ajegunle o, Americana marry musician…”
“Don’t understand you.”