Ìgbò-highlife music playing back on
the vinyl player, dims the day to night.
Burning the night whilst watching
the candle, wax out old memories
as I straddle mourning and gladdening.
Ever since I left my old man’s village
through Jonah’s eyes —
I have nothing charming sitting yonder
waiting for me to kneel to, and relay how
I couldn’t be at my mother’s white funeral
with eyes bleeding heavily on grief
and the left hand bearing a machete
to split death’s filthy hands…
Faraway from water & blood, but I have
my mother near at hand in the shoreline
of my palm, drawing gaiety of two roses,
awakened her fragile-taken breath.
Hidden in a faraway land where I
break my soul to reach heaven and
tell the angels how it is/feels to be
away from people that look like me
for the place: of the discomfort…
of god instead — his law on my head!
That I carry about like a madman
hawking another man’s prejudice.
I shoo myself away — faraway
where I crip-walk with my shadow
learning her drunken smile, watering
the certainty that I fear to behold;
for The Begotten is nowhere
to be found in this timeless space!