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Captive No More (III)
Captive No More (III)
7.
Music is the language of tragedy,
and dance, the vocabulary of trauma.
Silence, the death of feelings,
marks the beginning of madness.
After my great grandmother in vain
yelled the name of her son, Akin,
several times, and got no response,
she stepped outside and scanned
where he was playing,
and yelled his name again,
when she did not see him there
her stomach sank
because down in the pit of her womb
she knew he was gone.
Art of Social Distancing
Yesterday, my friend, Femi, called from Maryland and we had a long and beautiful conversation on the art of social distancing.
He wanted to buy a painting.
I told him I was happy to sell a painting and sent him a picture of the work.
I said the painting would look good as a Zoom backgrounder—like when FOX News calls and wants your opinion.
Are you going to panic because the artless interior of your home would suddenly become exposed to hundreds of millions of people on television and social media?
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.”
It’s good.
It’s good.
Nature is healing.
Life is in becoming.
Time is resetting
The rhythm of time
Cellphone Conversation
Cellphone Conversation
(After Wole Soyinka’s “Telephone Conversation”)
My phone rang, I recognized the number
and picked it up.
“Hey, babe,” I said,
“What’s going on?”
She started laughing,
and it seemed she wanted to talk,
but just couldn’t control herself.
I wanted to know
what was so funny. Finally,
she managed to stop laughing.
