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
3 days ago
The streets are empty. There is as much fear as there is oxygen in the air.
The prices of foodstuffs have been hiked and even hope is not cheap at this time.
Still, like these flowers, you can take a sip of the sun rays without wilting.
While staying safe, visit the eboquills website, let's help you hone your writing skills.
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