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.
Captive No More (Part II)
3.
When they snatched my grandfather
from the breasts of his mother,
he lacked the language
to grasp or describe
what did happen
and was happening to him
.
In those days,
mothers breastfed their infants
for three solid seasons,
some four, some longer.
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.
What is Male?
Who is male and who is female?
It all depends on time and space, as my father told me just before he joined the ancestors last year.
About two weeks to his transition, my father called me and said he needed to tell me something important.
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.
Wisconsin, Madison, 1994. Naming ceremony.
I was a college student.
One of my Nigerian colleagues had just finished his Ph.D., and he returned to Nigeria.
He had no idea that his girlfriend in Madison was pregnant.
When he was contacted, he decided that he was not returning to the US.
The pregnant girlfriend decided she was not going to Nigeria to join him.
I was a college student. One of my Nigerian colleagues had just finished his Ph.D., and…
After my Ph.D., I returned to the roots to learn from the source.
These iyas who have no university degrees taught me things none of my professors knew.
When a sheep keeps the company of the dog, it learns to eat feces.
Western Nigeria was not like this when we were growing up.
Oluorogbo–the first scholar.
In Ile Ife is a fellow to whom the invention of writing is ascribed.
His name is Oluorogbo.
(But this fellow is different from Olurorogbo, the son of Moremi).
Over the centuries, Oluorogbo’s scripts have disappeared because his books were buried during a conflict–a failed attempt to preserve the scripts and prevent them from getting into the hands of the enemies.
Evening.
The sun is setting.
The night is falling in Ile Ife.
For many years after I arrived in the United States, whenever I slept, I would dream of Ile Ife.
Nightfall.
Ile Ife.
For many years after arriving in the US, whenever I slept, I would dream of Ile Ife, where I grew up.