A Lone Black Ant| AN ORIGINAL POEM <center>Twirling on my desk Roundabout my files A lone, black ant In a scout for crumbs of sugar Paraded itself like a pageant My thumb is raised To thunder below To sniff life out of the Liliputan creature But at the last minute My mind I did change to let go For who knows One day I might be At the mercy of the gods And favour would I find in their sight</center> ![ant-4155225_1280.jpg]( <sub></sub> poem @gandhibaba

The Future| AN ORIGINAL POEM <center>The future does not come To you like the balls of doughnuts in a showglass Nor does it come To you like the brilliant colours of the rainbow The future does not come To you like the replay of a football match The future comes to you pregnant Like the devil’s parcel You have no control over it.</center> ![binoculars-1209011_1280.webp]( <sub></sub> poem @gandhibaba

My father's culture| POETRY the culture of the cross spreads out from the tongues of prophets & clergies its ways so tender like wool but they throw bayonet at those who don't raise the flag of their culture— they say they are entitled to burn. the culture of the star too spreads out from the tongues of clerics & sheiks its way so rigid like baobab they also throw dirk at those who don't clasp their culture— they say they will be plagued with fire. my father's voice carries his culture although its way so primitive like relics, it snatches my love as it leads people into its bosom sans scaring those who don't enter with fire. poetry @gandhibaba

Helpless| POETRY when a mother tucks every prayer she had learnt into the body of her crumbling son and God doesn't bat an eyelid till death draws him into its tempest. we turn to the priest, ask him why God clasps silence when we need him the most. God's plan, he answers. when turbulence walks through our homes as though our home is a titanic ship we cry till a voice perches on every turbulence & knits it into tranquility. but, when God watches a nation burn with what do we fight? when he watches a girl crumble before her pious mother with what does she use to fight? ![kid-1077793_1280.webp]( poem @gandhibaba

Void| POETRY I know of woman's privilege: Say a woman walks into a space and there's an outpour of warmth to envelope her body because she's a woman. Also say a woman drops the wrath in her palm on her lover's cheek and the lover retaliates yet, the world says the lover isn't man enough & says he's a synonym for beast but the woman isn't. I know of man's privilege too: Say a man donning a crown on his head as a woman sits on the sideline because the gods don't approve a woman. but, where's black privilege? When will a black man touch a honeyed surface because he's black? When will a black man escape the teeth of a rifle because he's black? When? When? When? ![protest-5305400_1280.jpg]( poetry @gandhibaba

Lovers Of Feast| POETRY ![kiss-691995_1280.webp]( I know of a people who wedge an assembly to feast when a child walks out of a womb also do they wedge an assembly to feast when a body walks into a gravestone. their tongues heavy with songs their body undressing the magics of dance. this is why the world named them after bliss when their country oozes everything ruins piggyback. writing @gandhibaba

June 12| AN ORIGINAL POEM <center>a nation will come again, you will watch them from your television set read about them from a newspaper celebrating what they don't own. how does democracy dance in a country where autocracy stamps its feet? aborted dreams still parambulate graves for speaking at every bayonet of injustice. tell the world every celebration is a facade like a bleached skin songirds are still plucked from the sky for singing too loud.</center> poetry @gandhibaba

Self-praise| AN ORIGINAL POEM <center>drag your body into the surface of the mirror every morning lace your body with words alluring to fetter a girl's heart say you're beautiful like marigolds on their bed say you're too adamant to let go of joy say there's much flood on your body for it to be named after a desert say you'll rise like a phoenix after a conflagration. don't wait for your neighbour to curate this ritual, just do it! for this is how to escape fire.</center> poetry @gandhibaba

Weight of loss| POETRY ![desperate-2293377_1280.webp]( at the tap of catalysm we scoop the voice of a nightingale to sing psalms reaching God's bosoms. call it anything you like, a ritual of a mad man because you feel only the insane sprinkle psalms on a dead body instead of tears. we just sing not because we await a miracle shedding off itself from necromancy but because we have been taught to weigh our losses. down this alley, you'll see a man kneeling before his dead son yet, singing psalms because he's other children at home to scatter his rooms unlike his barren next door neighbour. poem @gandhibaba

Lingering| POETRY ![beer-839865_1280.webp]( they say we spring from two bodies but why is it a sip of taboo when two fruits coming from the same mother find pleasures on each other's body but, never, when mothers are different? they say hard work ripens one's breakthrough and except a man piggybacks it his breast-pocket will remain scorched but why do we tongue grace when abundance pitches its tent over an indolent man? they clergyman brags about a home in the sky he says everything Earth palms is vanity but why does he run to the hospital when malady thunders? poetry @gandhibaba

Songs of Joy| POETRY <center>It doesn't rain here; everywhere is sultry— dwelling houses, homes, alleys, footbridges…. everyone is busy busy with languaging grief busy with dressing wounds you're lucky if a man piggybacks you when you become weary because there's a pandemic called misfortune chavelling the nation. the news says our president suspends Twitter in the country: we are suffocating he just shut the eyes of the world against us. who will listen to our sultry tears? i think God because only him sees through closed doors and we want him to pour songs of joy into our oesophagus?</center> ![2014-08-25-the_case_for_giving_cash_to_poor_kids-2.jpg]( poetry @gandhibaba

The Journey| POETRY ![images (57).jpeg]( <center>this couch is so succulent like these two bodies ready to be converged. bodies, open agape like the red sea— yours & mine. the israelites aren't to thread the bare path but me, walking with my tiny head into the promise land. this journey bears so many things, like pants, like retreats, & like sweetness. if the former fills my mouth like spittle, i'll come back again not with a tote of naivety but experience.</center> poetry @gandhibaba

Manipulation| POETRY ![manipulation-smartphone-2507499_1280.webp]( you make your face a grave to bury the fingerprints of your lover : you smear makeup over a broken face. the world wears ballads on your wrist each time you pass. you smile, a man searches for salvation in your eyes he tells you his dead mother walks inside your body but you writhed his proposals. you know your face is a facade. you'll fall into what love has wedged you into when night trumpets. but, is this what it's to love to keep gifting a broken body to a man who breaks it? poetry @gandhibaba

WAR| POETRY <center>there's something about war; its cicatrixes are always mint. how does diplomacy wash a land drenched with blood? do biafrans forget the massacre? do we forget our progenitors who chose death to bondage in the belly of fishes? there's a woman cooking, probably, a last supper, there's no husband to caress the bowls only children staying alive to grieve their father. a boy is on an alley with a searchlight finding his mother's face on cadavers heavy with vengeance. there's something with war; it leaves you with raw memories.</center> ![knight-2565957_1280.jpg]( poetry @gandhibaba

Town Criers| ORIGINAL POETRY A time comes they beat their gongs in grins and generous palms. Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! The rattles spread round the city then, we assemble ourselves with starved bellies. Their manifestos unfurl, we see the punctures in them yet we follow because they smear a relief on our never tiring hunger. After sometime, we become town criers, ones, drenched in tears. We beat our gongs now with bulgy demands Clang! Clang! Clang! Clang! The media piggybacks the rattles but neglect is the dungeon they fall into. poetry @gandhibaba

My Country Denies Me of Marigolds| POETRY ![873-07156961em-zulu-dancer-shakaland.jpg]( <center>I wake every morning into a circus of worries— what doom will this country birth today? and it's just what it's; my country is a museum for grief. I want to language the litany of joy in every poem my pen pukes but, how do you write about a substance too inexistent? You lay your words as heralds on the body of a paper, and you end with a note which tells, *this piece of art is absolutely a fiction.* Still, there is something about this fiction— a reader, certainly from a different country will find his universe in your work : say his leaders aren't kleptomaniac say the cops don't whistle a requiem with their guns. he'll scream, *this is my country!* In this, you know your country denies you of marigolds.</center> poetry @gandhibaba

Mother's Instructions| POETRY After Deborah Ajilore Mother said, "shield your cleavages from the claws that sit on men's eyes only the man who completes your ribs owns the sight", "don't let your skirt crawl above your kneecap glistening thighs like yours are very easy to breathe into a man's libido" "beauty should be a dark magic — hidden", she said. But on the day a plunder crumpled by dignity, I wore my hijab with pride like those girls in Saudi Arabia. ![hijab-3064633_1280.webp]( poetry @gandhibaba

Lost| AN ORIGINAL POEM <center>Everything I love is always on the move, say they don't wait for me like God & like my ex-lover from whom I learned love could also be a metaphor for fire. Dreadlocks spread their lushness on my head— her making: she said she doesn't like boys without them. I still carry them thinking someday she will heal our wrecked ship. I always have this puzzled unscrambled dream. In it, I sit beside a grave scribbling a note ribboned with love messages thinking a hand will write back to me but all I always return to is a crumpled paper. Last week, I saw her in the arms of another man with lush smiles. I swear there's no bayonet in her heart. My body is lost in a labyrinth, I want to call my body mine again. I stand at the mirror every morning, but my body is absent in the mirror's reflection all I see is her, is this how love snatches what it doesn't own?</center> ![tunnel-2325753_1280.jpg]( <sub></sub> poem @gandhibaba

Prayer| POETRY <center>I make a tongue brimmed with supplications in this poem. Here in this body, legions of privations have overstayed so it's time I whipped them out into the swine with my conflagrating tongue. Let my goodness have the semblance of the air so when it comes, no barricade will antagonize. Last night, I heard the radio man say the man who fed the mendicants lost his feet in the whirlwind and today, one mendicant charred his breath with a sturdy rope. *Eludumare,* hold the feet of my benefactor like you hold earth, cast a shawl of sleep on his eyes when the road is thirsty for blood. Let me exit this poem with veseels of riches, *ase!*</center> ![buddhism-2214532_1280 (1).webp]( <sub>Glossary : 1. Eludumare is the name of God in the Yoruba language 2. Ase literally means Amen</sub> poem @gandhibaba

What kind of love?| POETRY <center>We sit behind our television sets watch the players evoke spells with their feet. We cheer them on to our desired goal post as though we own them. We strip off serenity's robes at every faux pass made by the players & at every concession of a goal. You could see us at newsstands with our dazzling piece of clothing stopping our team from being dragged into a quagmire. We do this with erected muscles and sweaty faces (we don't care) Have you seen our bodies emptied of joy when our team loses? Have you seen us build a sanctuary of prayer for the victory of our team? Have you seen us grumble like the oppressed before our wives when our team loses?</center> ![football-1678992_1280.webp]( <sub></sub> poem @gandhibaba