The Poetry Marathon

You never met your father’s grandfather

but you know him through evening tales

you know him in songs of him

you know that he is the first generation of pride

When your father tells your history

he tells you to hit your chest and say-

“I am Adannaya, the fourth generation of pride”

every one of us has it running in our veins

we bear a proud name

you see-

the father of my great grandfather was the first son of a rich man

like light that attracts moth, wealth attracts envy

in his riches he was open to death attempts

swaggering round the village after the birth of his heir

he recognised envy when he saw it mirrored in people’s faces

that is how we got our family name

Akungala, proud wealth

In a hundred years

three generations or four might have come through me

carrying the weight of the name

pride flowing in their veins

amassing the wealth of a thousand people

may they swagger as they walk

may their shoulders be lifted up in their gait

may they flow on riches

just like him

The city stays beaming and breathing while others sleep

it lights up on weekends

the bubble spreads like a wildfire

alcohol exhumes wild personalities tucked in all week

loud pass hands

bodies seek warmth in others

the city is alive in a high mood

Saturdays are for owambe

there’s an aunty in yellow-

her face is beat fifty shades lighter

her gele stands tall

how else do you know she has arrived-

if her aso-oke doesn’t speak hundreds of thousands of naira?

that jewelry is definitely from Dubai

she orders for amala

there must be ogunfe and big fish

those bottles of minerals would find a home in her bag

Her daughter’s waist is snatched in a corset

this is the hundredth wedding she is attending as an asoebi girl

but who is keeping count?

Sundays are holy, sabbath should be kept

those wild bodies go back to God

with gloomy faces they sit through sermons-

prepared to tuck the wildness in work pants the next day

While dawn stretches each morning, the city sits wide awake

the scorching sun rises and sets on the backs of the working class

they sit packed in buses and cars

some shirts billow on bikes avoiding the traffic jam

the city plays a game of make or break

every sojourner desires to be another star

some give up this hope early

some do not but-

“eko oni baje”

the five days of the week drag

patiently like fanatics, they wait to unleash their beasts

faithful in this religion

“The darkest evening of the year” -Robert Frost, Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening

the first time you hold his neck

he tells you that it is a palace only a queen enters

you tell him you are his queen

then he shows you to the throne

you sit a kiss on it-

that is the same spot you drive your knife in

you are awakened by a noiseless wail

intuition makes your hands rove the bed

you feel the cold of absence

it tells you it has been empty a long time

you take your pocket knife

years of abuse builds a monster

you roar out of the room

your daughter’s door is shut

you hear the noiseless wail that woke you again

you’re careful when you open it

it is your baby’s graduation the next day

you do not want to wake her

it takes seconds for your eyes to find comfort in the darkness

you do not scream or call on God

you do not run to get anointing oil like your mother

you walk forward and drive the knife into him

history might have repeated itself

but this stepfather must die

You are already drowning

the waves of life push and toss you

your body is tired of the burden

“stay afloat” you hear people say

the promised help isn’t forthcoming

maybe the hope you need lies on the other side of life

maybe the mouth of this river is the door you must enter

“one, two, three”, you count

“does a countdown end at two or three?”

no one is here to tell you

you close your eyes and let the wind whisper peace

The sky mirrors your emotions

it starts with a drizzle

you walk forward listening to the riverbank’s call

its soothing voice quiets the other voices

the water kisses your toe

is there a better sign?

it kisses one more time, this time it lingers

its touch quenches the fire burning in you

the voices in your head rise to agree with the water

with arms stretched wide

eyes closed

crying with the sky

feeling all the hurt washed away

you walk forward

the river opens its graceful mouth,

swallowing

giving you peace

I am the Benita Olika. Most days I’m more of a reader than a writer, on others I write more than I read. You’d most likely find me doing one of the two when I’m not working.

This is something I’ve wanted to do for a while and “excited” doesn’t do justice in describing how I feel.