Sweet White Lies
Warning: This poem is full of lies December 8th, Human barbecue was served in Sokoto. Souls cried in silence. They said the land needed to be cleansed; blood overflown Rima. I borrowed silence to my tongue, it is the only way to live comfortably l i e s While coming from a night class, some strange men strangled my coursemate and stole her innocence. I shouted help; my speeches camouflaged in the air like a frail curtain in the ruins of a stranded wind and fell back to me; cringed. l i e s In this poem: there is a door leading to grief, to when my brother told me how he so much wanted to live a good life. ladies and gentlemen, he was lured to sleep with a lullaby from the nozzle of AK-47 Misery: here, dreams are napkins in the ass of carnibalists l i e s River Niger tastes salty; tears creeple down into waterfalls. The ears are home for dirges. The eyes are tabernacle of incessant flashes of bom-blasts. The hands waned. At Niger, the muezzin calls prayer; #justiceforkarabondegirls ×3 l i e s My neighbour's husband travelled. Poor him promised me a book; he returned with his body glued 6-feet beneath the soil. His wife springs tears. I consoled her; it is not what you think, I sighed, yawned and returned to the metaphors of pity. There, I hung her pains in the fingers of air l i e s This poem is full of lies Sweet white lies! Astagfirullahi!
THE SUN IN MY HOUSE DOES NOT EMIT RAYS
To sleep, now scare me, l fear one day my sleep might take me to one of these nameless streets, somewhere between the news headline. While starting this poem, my voice became wrapped in silence, I might get eaten by the time I reach the center— yesterday in my sleep I wrestled with my head swinging on the pendulum of grief. But in my home, to be a man is to master the art of grief. In my sleep I see strange shadows, sowing in rows, in nameless farms, the seed of grief, & on a barren land flooded with blood. Blood carrying wishes & wants & dreams the only thing I could do was to shout with a voice steeped in silence the name of my mother. Who said; 'when next you have a dream, don't scream my name. People in glass houses do not throw stones.' Here, dreams are another name — for restless nights, for faces devoid of smiles, for towns ruled by kings crowned in cowardice, for one of the things that turned my brother into shapes, for strings of memories not worth repeating, for every metaphor a Nigerian poet uses. & anytime I feel sleepy, I return to one of these poems, before I become a memory in its name.
Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi is a budding poet from Kwara state, Nigeria. He is currently running his degree program at Usmanu Danfodiyo University, Sokoto, Nigeria. He works as a campus journalist at PEN PRESS, UDUS. He is a year three student of botany. He is obsessed with writers and what they write. When he underthinks, he reads; and when he overthinks, he writes. He is so much passionate about his ancestral hometown, Kemanji, where he writes. He bagged NAKS ( a student Union body) award of the best poet of the year, 2021.His works have appeared or are forthcoming in the Kalahari review, synchronized chaos and Borgu book club.