Hiccups

Grief hovers and pours down on me like a cascade, gathering grim waters that float from my heart to the Nile.

I am a sad boy who came from Mama’s womb

and only in her cradle arms, I do find peace.

She interprets my silence even when the world 

calls me dumb, I read the definition of love in her

smile as she fills my thoughts with words from pages of the holy Qur’an, and feeds my mouth 

with garlic. Garlic scares away demons. Mama believes so.

Childhood was fun in her presence, she would always lay me in my crib and then, drop a kiss on my cheek when I have fallen asleep— (Her way of saying goodnight to me)

before turning off the hurricane lamp.

Now my eyes swallow me with a flood of tears and my SOS can only be sent to Mama because she is my lifejacket. We share the same heart. 

But lo! Today unfolds a hurtful story

Uh! I gasp… Longing for water 

but Mother is no more to slake my thirst,

my crib is replaced with a tomb where her bones are held

by dust. (Goodbye)

Before We Became Broken Things

Before the fall of rain became untold history, flowers were there as bearers of beauty where we clustered in tenderness to partake from nectars, but today holds a picture of what is left and all we see is ugliness—a field of withered petals. Death smells here, I tell you, only death. A place of freshness, once a garden, is now an orchard of ruins. Look, it wasn’t always like this from the very beginning of things. I was once a lover; I was once loved by another, but time is a glutton swallowing every syllable of merriment, of anything at all that pleases a man’s soul. Today, we wear pain like a befitting abaya, call us talakawa, call us marasa gida, call us maro’ka, or any name that defines our wretchedness. But I tell you, we too are humans with red blood flowing through our veins. Look, before the first bomb was blown somewhere in Borno, erasing our homes, we were entitled owners of precious properties. Before gunshots began to echo in Katsina, Gombe, Jigawa, Kano, Zamfara, and elsewhere, we were all sons of loving fathers and daughters of caring mothers. We once had much before we lost all; we were once cherished before we became rejected; we were once clothed before we became naked. Today, we lurk within your cupboard for survival; we seek meals from your garbage, and you may call us poor, hungry, dirty, or needy. Yes, it is what we are. But I tell you, before we became cockroaches in the sight of men, we too were adorable butterflies.