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!
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.