My Dear Child
My Dear Child
Before you were born—
if you raised your binoculars,
if you could peep
through the keyhole of life
Would you open the door
and walk right through?
Or would you run back
To My Unborn Child
To My Unborn Child Learn to listen Between the lines. Words are nothing but mesmerizing sounds The word “water”Is not wet.
HOW TO LOOK IN A MIRROR
HOW TO LOOK IN A MIRROR When you find a mirror you must first turn on the lightNot the light in the room But the light in your heart. Never look in the mirror With your eyes:
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.
Àwọn Yèyélórìṣà, Akirè Shrine Ilé Ifẹ̀, 2003.
Àwọn Yèyélórìṣà, Akirè Shrine Ilé Ifẹ̀, 2003.
After I took this picture in 2003, I returned to find the group in 2017.
But for the two women at the extreme left, all the others had transitioned.
Everything had disappeared.
There was nothing left. Absolutely nothing. Zit.
But the Irunmoles have a way of ensuring that we don’t lose everything, even though we might be careless as humans.
Between the past and the future,
etween the past and the future,
The present is squeezed to death.
Stop allowing the junk from the past,
or the apprehension about the future,
to steal the pleasure of your now.
THE REAL ẸKÙN
I went to see the REAL ẸKÙN to pay my respects, soon after his coronation.
This is not imported. It was from the ancient
forests of Ile Ife.
This cold weather is here again.
This cold weather is here again.
How many layers do I wear just to go and get a cup of coffee from Starbucks?
Six layers.
ÀMỌ̀TẸ́KÙN: No kidding
ÀMỌ̀TẸ́KÙN: No kidding
The Yoruba forests have already lost too many animals to local hunters who spare nothing with life in the bushes.
And the Yoruba language has lost too many words to the brainwashed indigenes who refuse to speak the language or pass it down to their children.
It is not a good time to ask for the meaning of Àmọ̀tékùn.
The meaning is totally lost, to be honest with everyone.
They came to see the Akodi Orisa.
These kids appeared from nowhere.
They came to see the Akodi Orisa, they said.
“We know absolutely nothing about the Orisa. Do you kill people and use their blood for money.”
They wanted to learn about the Orisa from Baba Olorisa.
Make more children.
Make more children.
Many, many, many, more children.
More and more and more.
Àmọ̀tẹ́kùn kids.
Let every Amotekun woman produce ten.
Let every Amotekun man make 50.
There is food in the land to feed them.