The body of a young Nigerian girl
is salvaged from a shallow grave…
In this poem, life is exhumed from the bosom
of an orphan girl in her search for hope.
I heard she was mauled till her bones squeaked
beneath her flesh and God heard the cry and left
or at least that’s the narrative I get when grief
grips my nerves into writing a love poem
on nights when Greenfields grow memories
of how a name is tender as a flower; beautiful
and lovely till it wilts into despair.
I heard she whimpered and squealed, sorrowed
into depths of greater agony, with every touch
growing thorns beneath her skins.
Yet, her weightless body, a sailing ship banging
into icebergs in the middle of nowhere-waters
on a stormy-night, where pain is the wind.
I am exorcised of faith, every time I remember
that I am Nigerian too – Mother hates it when I think
it’s not God controlling our universe.
The face of her mother resurfaces
in the pool of her own blood as preface
to an Elegy she wrote with every breath
from her birth, till death bailed her from the misery.
Here, in a crash-TedX,
a rapist motivates the masses
into decorum and civil responsibility
before a good Samaritan finds a soldier
by the roadside, weary, lifts him into ease
but before he could get to the inn, a handful
of bullets are sown in his chest, He reaps blood
from his mouth – a body is rolled away like a stone.
A child is without a mother
A mother is without a child
Our only comfort is in the blessedness of mourning.