From the paradise palms of my mother I watch two knocks hits me like a hammer; hitting a cold metal; searching for a shape. In Africa, fears tend to hone our senses; dismantled hope & introspection heal our wounds of biases faster than love The sackless that suffuse the age of 8 is not innocent enough at such a time. Those knocks became the doctor & herbs That cures my early cognitive biases– their memories are therapeutic skeletons that restrain my curious hands, whenever the urge arrives, to stretch out to beg. At 8, you're still a raw, hot metal; after shape everything is a hammer, a mirror, a mold said my mother, who cried whenever I cried Her looks had rules I stored in my brain. Learned to wring beauty from ordinaries: not to be dreamless even if I'm un-whole Enjoy a meal even if it's tasteless & tell what's beautiful, I'm okay & satisfied. I'm born a wound healing; miles from others. Whenever where I come from starts fading & other's loud weal begins to sadden me I look at the shortcut to joy in my mother's eyes; it's my origin & the mirror of my destination. when a mother's love surpasses wrong said, my mother, it's a ruins bridge to peace.
Umar Yogiza Jr is a builder, writer and freelance photographer living in Northern Nigeria. Collecting words & meeting budding writers gives him joy, as he awaits the result of the coin of his life tossed by God & Devil. His work can be read in Heartburn Review, Pikerpress, Tuck magazine, Spillwords, Poeticdiversity, The Indian Feminist Review, Nthanda Review, ANA Review and elsewhere.