Portrait of my country’s canonization as a dungeon of wildfire


I want to start this poem by defining what a greenhouse gas is to my mother 

Who only understand the science of chemistry in the kitchen or when she wants

To bring down trees to turn them into cooking charcoal that aids the process of filling
My stomach but would endanger my survival when I would be 76.

So in other to start a well-crafted conversation in this poem,
I told my mother that even though those who live in glass houses are not

Meant to play with stones; we misunderstood the metaphor and built our
House in the market of sticks fighting, of matchsticks and dry leaves

But I do not want to dwell in the past or trapped like the methane
Or black carbon in my father’s car that

Would become the bases of my country’s devastation into a wasteland,
Or it’s canonization as a dungeon of wildfire

Described by my teacher when he said my country is sitting on a keg
Of gun powder or at the epi-centre of destruction

I’m awake in a wake of fear that someday I would try to mould happiness
Only to become water because in my country, we’re not only endangered

By the naughtiness of man against nature, but by the haughtiness of man against man,
Because we can’t breathe;

Our villages have become museums of bones polished by war.
And our houses are graveyard and our farmlands cemetery for mass burial.

We do not know the sound of laughter because laughter is a nightmare in our dreams
And bullets have replaced the sound of music in our ears

Hope is an elegy to graves blending tears with laughter, slicing the protest in our voices that’s not enough
Our shadow frightens us in thin darkness and bombs and bullets lynched by loud silence

Every night is heavy with fear of becoming a forgotten name because
Every noise is a vampire carrying a gun, and our golf-men[t] no send us

What are you looking for?