Lately, I have learnt to write as I sense.
It is one thing to dissect the body, but it’s a more difficult
thing to dissect the heart.
I spend the night crawling back into the sun
& spend the day digging out stars from the sky.
But you must know, the things I inscribe are not all glints.
There are times in this place the air drops heavy with the
news of raids
& I am forced to carry the memories of flesh peeling off
walls of soot,
forced to relive the sight of bombs shaking the earth loose
of houses she once held in her pouches.
There are times I harvest smothering voices from hot
headlines,
times I touch my radio & pick up bits of shrapnel,
times I walk into the TV & walk out of it to see my fears
reflected on other faces,
times I feel time wriggle from the grasp of my palms to
leave the hands wet with the memory of slippery things.
& the crimson images I capture in gloomy perspectives
come to me again & again & again.
But when they come as they have come even now, I enclose
myself in the daffodils sprouting from the graves here
& sing a song of resurrection.
Ayokunle Samuel Betiku (20th century) Nigeria
Source: African Writer
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