Umar Yogiza Jr.: Swerves of piercing memories

Photo by Kelly Sikkema on Unsplash
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.


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