Tanto, my grandfather’s dog,
shook the rain off his furs
as vigorously as he could
being a dog who hated water
and always tried to escape
whenever Iya, my great grandma
made any move whatsoever
to give him his weekly scrub.
He could easily tell it was his bath time
as soon as grandma brought out a large pot
filled to the brim with water
together with a sponge and black soap
placing the bathing things
Proposed Ban on Street Begging in Southwest Nigeria?
I love beggars
Beggars are your best friends
Everywhere you turn on the streets of southwest Nigeria,
beggars have occupied the pathways:
beggars on the floor, crawling toward you;
beggars limping;
beggars pretending to limp;
Life Begins At 65
I’m only just 64, but life begins at 65
I thank all my friends who sent me birthday wishes yesterday.
I can’t wait for the party to start when, finally, I get born one year from today.
But, it’s alright. Some people are only in their thirties, forties, fifties and early sixties. They have to wait a while to get born and start rocking.
At 65, you’ve done it all. Life has thrown all it has at you, and you have stood your ground. You can easily say, “Ẹran kí la ò jẹ rí? What edible flesh am I yet to chew?”
The mighty and resplendent Iya Iroko
tree had remained rooted
to the same spot
near the Oba river
for three hundred and sixty-four seasons
watching the ways of humans
from the viewpoint of a plant
under which folks sat
Captive No More (Part VI)
17
Tanto, my grandfather’s dog
was busy harassing a lizard
when he caught the scent
of strange bodies.
He did not hear them
and he did not see them
but he could smell them
within fifty yards from him.
The rainbow is smearing
pigments on my teeth
as if being colored
is a virtue;
All it does is keep the
cops from trusting me
when I cross
the street from innocence
to dark alleys
where they play hide
Captive No More V
14
The baale of Apaara,
My great grandfather
returned on horseback
only to discover that
His favorite child was gone
swept along the rabid rapids
of the slavers’ path
into the abyss of time.
Captive No More IV
10
After my great grandmama realized
that her songs failed
To return her child to her breasts
She stopped singing
and began to dialog with herself
even when nobody listened.
She asked strange questions
and responded with strange answers.
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
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.
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.
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.