Ekoja’s body was a haunted house.
Haunted: by a glowing darkness;
by a cocktail of voices fading into silence;
by footsteps echoing a numbing pain.
[You’ll never know that scars are ghosts
until your deepest wounds die but you
still hear their voices in your head]
Like a perforated song, he tried in vain
to hold rhythm, he was a void of brokenness,
a hollowed silence, an opaque aquarium of tears
an equation, I later learned could not be solved
without making ‘pain’ the subject of the formula
On the night of his passing, he said,
“I am not just a survivor,
I am the leftovers of a meal eaten by
the war which began in my brother’s groin
& ended on my wife’s body, where I caught him
painting a 3-D image of lust & betrayal”
“Every day comes replaying the dimensions of that war:
The rise & fall of sweaty bodies, dripping pleasure,
The soft silky moans, paving a path to orgasm
on the matrimonial bed of a man you call ‘brother‘ “
“That day, I died for the first time,
my illusionary fatherhood, like an abobaku,
followed me to my grave
to explain why the lad I called ‘son’
could pronounce all words, but ‘father’ “
abobaku: Yoruba word for the royal servant who is buried with the king at his death.
Photo credit: pexels.com
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