After my mother left, I forgot the written things,
that part that speaks to me became obsolete.
There was a spirit breaking the pod of a kolanut.
Forgive me, dear Lord for this confession.
I was a mere boy, in the middle of a dark night,
gifted a box of grief. I did not want to share.
I wanted pain to end with me in the grave
but my grandma wouldn’t allow me go alone.
Picture a school of graves in my family yard.
I rose the sun in my mouth and embalm it.
You won’t see me gnashing my teeth before her
or in the presence a man who was also a dry bush
because grief is fire_ it burns wild with air.
If I had said yes when I wanted to, who knows
something written would have found fulfilment
in my passing. Perhaps, it wouldn’t.