THE GOSPEL OF REBELS by Othuke Umukoro

THE GOSPEL OF REBELS by Othuke Umukoro

by | Oct 27, 2019 | ISSUE, Issue - Poetry

THE GOSPEL OF REBELS

by Othuke Umukoro

& in the evening when he had dispersed

the multitude, he went into the synagogue

& spoke to his disciples & the pharisees

a parable concerning the kingdom of rebels,

which by extension is the

kingdom of heaven

 

behold, sixteen men, he began quietly,

black with pristine pride & holding hands,

like thousands after them, chose

the shark-mouth of the atlantic

instead of life in sweltering

sugarcane plantations

 

& his disciples reasoned among

themselves for many days about

the meaning of this parable,

wondering that perhaps in

his death

 

a man sails home, free

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)

THE GOSPEL OF REBELS

by Othuke Umukoro | POEMS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

OTHUKE UMUKORO is a poet & playwright. His demons have appeared, or are forthcoming in the Sunlight Press, AfricanWriter, Eunoia Review, Brittle Paper & elsewhere. His debut play, Mortuary Encounters is available here. When bored, he watches Everybody Hates Chris. He is on twitter @othukeumukoro19

THE OTHER DWELLER by Frances Ogamba

THE OTHER DWELLER by Frances Ogamba

by | Oct 27, 2019 | ISSUE, Issue - Fiction

THE OTHER DWELLER

by Frances Ogamba

Lana is dead.

But she has etched rooms in our present, in the intricacies that braid our realities. She breathed her last underneath a duvet, curled up and cold beneath a covering, a seeming enclosure, perhaps this was why she went on finding crannies to get stuck and burying herself in them. At first, our rooms hummed a song that was as rhythmic as the claxons of vehicles from the gridlock in the morning hours. The songs were repeated at night, monotonous; they rapped at the windows of the three-room bungalow and clambered in and encircled the bedposts and the reading tables and pushed really close enough to fan our nostrils.

There are four of us. We share the same mother, but different paternity. One of us is dark-skinned. One of us is small of stature and has two navels. One of us squints when staring at remote things. One of us is me.

Often, we hear scurrying, sprightly and brief, it disappears the way it comes. Something unlatches our doors and blasts in a gust of wind. The clothes in our wardrobes quiver as though shrinking away from our touch, as if a pair of hands squeezes them first before we can.

Lana was our maid. She laid the table and brewed our tea. She bustled in the kitchen and made soup treats that heated up our taste buds. She loved peppers, that one, our Lana. When we finished the dining, Lana swung in and picked the plates. She made the beds just as we were about to crumble into them. She was swift, as she is now, living in our walls, whispering, surviving in airless passages.

We got Lana into our employ after our mother went to bed and swallowed her last breath. While we mourned, we needed help with the laundry, and cooking. We made a post in the town paper and a plump, light-skinned woman knocked at our door a day later – Lana. She owned neither a man nor a child, so every of her moments was forsworn for our convenience.

Our walls breathe recurrently, rising and falling like a heart. Someone dusts the floor before we ever reach the broom. Somehow, our plates get cleaned and put away. Something walks right into our rooms each time we unlock our doors, inhabiting the rooms before we march in. We scare at first, and then it feels so convenient that we relax into this comfort of being cleaned after. We tell no one, or how do you tell about a hand that depresses the button on the water closet just as you stand from the toilet seat, pushing your effluent into a sea of wastes? How do you explain the clean floors when you haven’t lifted a mop in months?

“We should visit a seer and know what all of this means,” the dark-skinned one says.

“In some stories, this whole thing stops the moment we go to find out anything,” the one who squints when staring at remote things says.

“It is beginning to get uncomfortable,” the one who is small of stature and has two navels says.

None of us visits a seer.           

The worrying dies off.  When we tell one of our friends, she says that we needn’t bother because these things happen a lot around here. We don’t say who we think it is. All we know is the woody fragrance that was Lana’s pastime, and how it is still sprinkled in the air of every room.

                                                      *

We cannot recall how long Lana has been dead, or the time spanning her service years between living in her physical body and in our walls. One day, she, while channeling her soul and her fury into keeping our rooms clean, spills water on the floor in error and one of us slips on it. Then there is some tongue lashing as we scold the empty air. This would have cut across as ideal if Lana still moved about in her blue uniform and flat shoes, her large eyes twinkling in embarrassment, except that now she is a feeling, a presence. There are more chidings thrown to the wind for someone’s dirty footwear, for the unpolished walls, for the bathroom curtain left hanging downwards for too long. You’d think when you heard the reprimands that Lana is still with her body, seated on her favourite stool in the laundry room.

Something appears to reverse in time right after this thrift. We return home to enmeshed clothes spilled all over the house, trailing across the floors like droplets of some liquid. The beds seem to rid themselves of the duvets, every surface shudders as our breathing hits the walls. We hear Lana when the plates clink and litter the kitchen floor when our boots go unlaced, and when the electric light bulbs dim and irradiate the rooms instantaneously. When this hurricane of activities passes, there is a steam of defenseless ease spread in all the rooms.

We seek the seers. The first seer says that the house we love, which perches on the cleft of a highland, overlooking a small neighbourhood with more houses than people, is haunted by the dead.

Does the dead not go home to the dead?

“No. There’s no other home for the dead except amongst the living. They loiter and bury themselves in their favourite things, rooms, and people,” the seer says.

Why is Lana happening to us?

“She worked for you and died in your house. There’s no other place for her to go.”

She seems hostile now.

“You took her services for granted.”

How do we undo it?

“Give her some time. Spirits are often surly and may delay granting absolution.”

The second seer asks us to break eggs at the doorways and make the egg yolk splash on the sills. He assures us that the mischiefs of the dead will go away after the ritual.

Nothing changes and we do not leave. The walls have on them the green paint which we love, and the sands of the yard graze our heels with a time-long familiarity. What we do is immerse ourselves into our present, find a pattern in the heartbeats of the walls, and make wisecracks about the clothes that walk away from the hangers after a force pulls and loops and knots them around things. We stop cleaning and arranging the house too, and align our lifestyle to the activities of the other dweller, our Lana.

The neighbours call us ‘weird’ and point us out to their children as the adults to never go close to. The whole thing is as disconcerting as it is normal.

There is always a rip in the air, we hear the slit loud and sharp. There is always a buzz, like an undertone, the severe intake of breath never quite escapes our hearing. There isn’t complete silence in our heads. How can there be when our pots clank against one another, and our toilets are filled with flush sounds as if a whole sea is out and crimped in our rooms, lashing out at us?

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

FRANCES OGAMBA explores varying themes in her writing. Her short story appears in the 2019 New Weather for MEDIA anthology. Her nonfiction piece, The Valley of Memories, won the 2019 Koffi Addo Prize for Creative Nonfiction. She also won a joint first place for the 2019 Syncity Ng Anniversary Anthology. She is on the 2019 shortlist of the Writivism Short Story Prize, and the 2019 longlists of OWT short story prize and the K&L Prize for African Literature. Her stories appear on Enkare Review, Munyori Literary Journal, and Arts and Africa. Few of her stories are interspersed in Afridiaspora and the 2016 and 2018 Writivism prize anthologies, Dwartonline and YNaija websites. She is a workshop alumnus of Writivism 2016, Ake fiction 2016, Winter Tangerine 2016, and YELF 2018. She works as a content developer from Port Harcourt, Nigeria.

BEYOND THE SILVER LINING by Efe-Khaese Desmond

BEYOND THE SILVER LINING by Efe-Khaese Desmond

by | Oct 27, 2019 | ISSUE, Issue - Fiction

BEYOND THE SILVER LINING

by Efe-Khaese Desmond

Alero sat amidst the animated blackness. The only source of light sprung from the tranquil screen of a computer device, which stood on the wooden table, observed by a tall suntanned stool.

Her palm scrolled through her unmade hair, drawing irregular searching patterns. It found the source of the itching and massaged with the strength of her annualry. This sent a stimulating feeling through Alero’s mass of sordid flesh. She wrestled her finger between the kneading that soothes the itching and that, which turns the tingling into a suppurating sore. She fought the urge and let her hands lay static between the fabrics of her trousered thighs.

The screen brightness of the laptop dimmed a pale white.

Alero knew this to be a forewarning of the system’s screen saver – a slideshow of pre-stored photos. Pictures, which will dissolve into memories. Memories. Hurt. She was crawling reflexively to the device to shut down its proposed blitz on her passions when an image of a young smiling boy appeared on the display.

His peculiarities were a set of teeth that threatened to pop out of its enamel as he clasped a basketball between his hands; a sweatshirt, the number 19 scribbled on it, and a pair of black tracksuit pants. One would have precisely deduced the base of his delight but for the bespectacled Alero who stood behind him gripping the handlebars of his motorised wheelchair. She was wearing a complete lawyer’s outfit – a dark robe that contained a white long-sleeved shirt, topped by a funny looking cap. It was the day her child had wagered that if his team wins the Paralympian games, she would don her legal costume to celebrate his victory.

Alero gave off a burst of maniacal laughter. Her voice rippled across the thin striped walls of the small room. The echoes, in turn, ricocheted to her, moulded with teary whimpering.

It has been two years since she allowed the metonym of her wig and gown to sail with the winds of fate in order to write her book. A thing she picked up after reading an article on the therapeutic effect of transcribing one’s feelings into words. In effect, hers were worthy of a book. Although she had been downing the therapy, the healing has refused to make an early rapport. It was like walking a tight rope – you know what is on the other side, but what befogs the mind is the downside – the apprehension of tumbling down. The years have been poured into a cause built on a chasm of uncertainty and loss, which wove through the lives of her family like the fabrics of spider knots.

Two years, yet, she still struggled to find the right grains to shape a model of her curse. The curse that takes the form of virtual motions and shadowy insignias, continually plaguing her to transcribe her early intimacy with dead bodies.

Alero punched a button on the laptop. The screen came alive with excitement.

“Set your ears atop the lifeless form of a cadaver”, Alero recited, “Feel the soft sounds of life sip slowly from form, and watch with a most satisfying feeling…”

These were the opening lines of a new chapter. The words sound almost macabre, she mused. On the other hand, her mind had mutated into that form. The fear of the loss of her son had somewhat warped her psyche from the breasts of typical thoughts.

It began when Alero was newly possessed with the aporia of leaving the legal practice, and she had told her husband atop the tenderness of bedroom pillows. He had set out the next morning and returned with a near facile speech on how her decision would disintegrate the income of the family, especially with the condition of their son, who was selectively needy. Alero had tried but she knew her husband could not understand the recurring nightmare she had been having. She only fed him her distant gaze and the arch of her back as she walked away. 

Alero had nodded, perspired and went to her laptop to draft a resignation letter to her law firm. She addressed it to the human resource office and since then had not gone to work. Not when she received interrogatory emails, not even when these mails transmogrified into teeming knocks at her door or when they downsized into tiny bytes of text messages nor plethora of missed calls.

She found comfort in the darkness, and voice, on her computer’s keyboard. It helped when she typed those words but when she read them back to herself and they brought back images to her head, she would abstain for days and release these shrouded words out of its cocoon, in slant watery anecdotes – her eyes becoming the pen, and tears, the lines.

It was during this phase that her husband wheeled their son out of the home. By way of an overdue jeremiad, he sent a message about how her newfound hobby has become inimical to the well-being of their son. He did not say further on this but went on to give a notice about how he will file for custody if she does not change. Those were how the words came across even though he had used something as nocent as “…if amendments are not made”. Alero knew this to be a penance for defying him but she did not care. Her love was for her son. He was being exhibited between a conflict founded on self-importance. But Alero had not responded.

Her phone chimed. 2:25 pm

A reminder. It was time to visit her esoteric therapist, Kaycee, who was being inhabited at the state’s prison facility.

*

Fortunately, the drive took more time than she predicted. This gave her a chance to think about the origin of her ‘sessions’ with Kaycee.

He had been one of her clients with a case of murder and a possible death sentence in proximity. In truth, Kaycee had not committed the killing but had only been a negligent pharmacist who misplaced drugs in the right bottle. This caused the death of the young boy.

Kaycee had doused all the humility he could muster as he told her the emotional turmoil his life had been spinning in since the loss of his children to the overseas. They neither contacted him nor were they considering it. Alero had empathised with him and fought to upturn an impending verdict of murder to manslaughter. Nevertheless, she could not save his license nor the next 16 years of his life. Although, he was grateful that she had preserved it.

He was an old man, in his mid-50s, and the visits started as a friendly call to check on his wellbeing in prison. Still, when her troubles were born, the table was transformed into a therapy session where she simply talked, and he paid attention. To him, it was an escape from the angular life of prison, for her, it was a conversation with a person who would listen because he had to, despite any perceived sentiment he might harbour.

Alero soon arrived at the prison. Turning the 2004 Toyota Camry through the old prison gates, she viewed the chief warden handing out instructions to the subordinates. The chief warden must have seen her car drive into the compound because just as she stepped on the doorframe, the warden saluted. She smiled. He thinks I am still a lawyer.

“Madam”, the man called out in his accentuated tongue, “Welcome o. How is the family?”

Her stomach did a tumble

“They are in God’s hands”, Alero managed to reply

“Hmmm… okay”, the warden beamed “Eh you are here to see our doctor àbí?”

They called Kaycee ‘doctor’. He had told her a remarkable experience. When he was doing his baptism – the part of telling them about what he did to warrant imprisonment – they could not phantom who a ‘pharmacist’ is. He had had to explain it in the light of a ‘doctor’ description. The latter appeared to have stuck better and stuck well as a nickname.

“Yes, I am”

“Okay. Kingsley”, he called to a younger officer “Go tell doctor sey him get visitor”. The designee hurried off to do his senior’s bidding “Madam”, he turned to Alero “Oya put your bag for that locker make this boy carry you go where you go siddon”

A few minutes after, she was in the faintly lightened waiting room. It had a flinching fluorescent bulb with half of its illumination in the darkness.

Kaycee soon came to join her. He was a well-built man for his age. Alero had no fear that he will not survive his term in prison. The oil that wheeled her visits was processed because of his perceived loneliness. He was looking untidy and sad. Alero wanted to hug him. She had tried, one time, but was rebuffed by Kaycee who said he did not want word to travel that he is weak. Alero could not connect the ley lines so she had let it be.

“How have you been?” Kaycee inquired, his eyes searching the answer on Alero’s face

Silence

“Jul?” he pressed on, the lines on his face already toning with strings of concern

“Eh? I’m coping”, her voice came out in a whisper.

Kaycee looked over his shoulders. The guards were not visible

“Why you dey whisper? Police no dey here na”, he jested

“Sorry”, this time it came out loudly “I have barely said a word to anyone for the past four days. I guess I am still finding my voice”

Kaycee let out a sharp sigh. He felt guilty about mocking her predicament

“You still dey write that book bá”, it was not a question

“Hmm”, Alero said, with a static nod

“So how far, you don finish?”

Alero did not reply

“Hello, I am the one in prison here”, Kaycee bellowed sharply

“What do you want me to say?” She retorted with a strain in her voice

“I asked you a question”

“I am not done, okay”, She said begrudgingly

“Why”

“You know why”

Kaycee took his hands from the table to lean on the rickety chair. Then he folded his arms across his chest to observe the woman in front of him.

“What are you writing about? At least, that I don’t know”

Alero paused then. This was the first time he was asking her about the subject matter of her troubles. Despite the repetitive visits, Kaycee had not earned the badge of her friendship – the insignia that allowed him into her nightmares. She looked away as if to retreat from the question, but she knew he would not allow her. The silence was not an answer either.

“It’s personal”

“‘Personal’ as in it happened to…” his finger, pointing at her, complementing the sentence “or personal as in you don’t want to talk about it?”

Blank stare

“Yes”

“Yes, what?”

“All of the above”

“So what are you doing here?”

“I don’t know what to do”

“About?”

“Finishing the book. I want to finish it. I really do, but I just can’t find the right stones to mount the building”, Alero muttered rapidly

Another blank stare

“Kaycee, time is ticking”

“I know”, he replied “and that is why I have six words for you…no seven”, he babbled, then he moved on to count his fingers

“Who cares, just tell me”, Alero demanded

“Get your hair out of this mess”

“What mess?” Alero probed, puzzled

“This mess”, his hands motioned to signify all of her.

“Me?”

“Yes, you”, Kaycee motioned again, “you sit down in your darkroom, and you reminisce about the blackness around you. You think about your husband and the impending loss of your son. You reek of regret about your decision to leave the legal profession. Forgetting that time walks on lighting feet and the sooner you move on the better for you not to be trampled. No one leaves a profession like Law in Nigeria, except they are pursuing a higher calling. Get your hair out of this mess and think forward, Alero”, Kaycee concluded breathlessly.

Alero marvelled at Kaycee. This was the first time he had ever scolded her for the tides of her life. Other times, he had just sat there and listened. She had been content with that or she thought she was. This newfound trait in Kaycee was shrouding. Intimidating.

“Okay. I will put that in mind”, that was all that came out, as the guard banged the door to indicate that their 5-minute tête-à-tête was over

“You had better. Come here”, he outstretched his hands as the guard knocked on the iron door.

“But I thought you said you don’t want the guards to think you weak”, Alero uttered slyly as she moved to the imprisoned man.

“Who said the hug is for me?”

*

This time Alero was in squalor. She could feel it; something was with her beyond what the eyes could comprehend. The hue of the room was a still nothingness merged with a vantage observer, or observers, stowed away, invincible. She knew there were spectators of this darkness.

“Who is there?” Alero asked the threatening gloominess

Her voice did not come back to her, although it felt like it was let out in a barren room. It was as if a huge hollow jar had been opened to swallow her echoes – as if something was denying her even the companionship of her own presence.

It was in the likeness of her writing room, yet, a structural flaw betrayed it.

Alero stretched her hand into the thickening air and groped for a wall or anything solid. Her hand caught on the stiffness as she clawed away, ripping at it like posters on a street wall. She kept tearing at it in search of a wall, a door, or anything concrete she could hold onto. When this failed, Alero tried to retrace her steps back to where she once stood. Just as she reclined backward, she hit something hard. The wall where she had woken up. An arduous malaise filled her temple. Had she advanced only a step?

Alero closed her eyes briefly and when she opened them, she made out the highlight of a door few paces from where she stood. It was either the darkness had cajoled up the door or the shape of her eyes has become allied with its rich contours.

She advanced, this time keeping track of how many paces she was away from where the door was mounted. Thankfully, she was moving closer to it. A few steps passed and she was dispersing her fingers across the doorframe, searching for the lever. Just as she was about to move it into opening, her ears became fixed on a quiet call behind her, which almost immediately became a fusion of different stages of wailing. While one cried out her name in a fit of benign erudition, a gentle one, with a tinge of motherly composition, seized the first syllable of her name, dipped it in the crevice of her throat, and let out the last syllable in a rocketing pitch. Another, a gruff voice wailed like that of a big man. A timid one, like that of a child, called out too. They were all calling out her name.

A sweetening sensation enveloped her as she stood there absorbing the effect of the grotesque spectacle. It carried the smell of resin and another familiar odour. This one tumbled into her nostrils and surged her memories into a forgotten time. The smell usually held strong around the figures of dead bodies. This awakened a feeling in her, a feeling of dread that these voices were warning her; inviting her, calling out for her not to go through the door. The voices became faint as her hand pushed the handle down to open it. She could not will it to do otherwise. Then she noticed that her body was not the one performing the action. Either someone was prodding the door from the other side of the door had an animated likeness.

As the door slid open, the sensation heightened and rolled into a whirlpool of dread. The stench of cadavers grew with a rocketing geometry alongside the detail of the room.

Alero saw an array of stretchers by the end of the wall, seated as if hypnotized. She would have attempted to move back but for the young girl who was walking towards one of the tables. The girl wore a pale nightgown and her black hair has been twisted into a cornrow with multi-coloured beads sticking out from its ends. Alero recognised this girl, even though her back was turned to her. It was someone she once knew. It was the young Alero spreading over two decades.

And she knew what the girl was about to do.

She called out to her, to stop her, but her words became strangled in her throat. Then it began to fall back into the pit of her chest.

Alero choked.

A tightening in her chest was preventing her from alerting the young girl. From averting her young eyes from what is underneath the covering. She still struggled to call out. But the girl’s hand was already on the head of the stretcher, lifting the covering of a bulging pile. The girl raised it and she saw it – a disfigured skeleton of what might have been a man rested on the head of the stretcher. This bone slowly took the form of flesh, filling up the indenture on the macabre form. Flesh became a whole face and the whole face appeared to be her mother, lying still atop the stretcher. The face then began to decay in tiny pieces, slow motion of horror.

A scream erupted from the nether, the observer, then Alero woke up on the floor of a small room. Her laptop laid stock-still a few feet from her head, undamaged. She picked it up and wiped the base with an opened palm. The pulsating light from the laptop stole a sigh of relief from her lips. Her hands quivered, not from fright, but eagerness. As she touched the keyboard in the darkness of the room, the voices in her head became her light.

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

EFE-KHAESE RINSE DESMOND is an award-winning writer whose stories mirror the issues he feels are not given enough recognition. This makes his works transverse from a virtual paedophilia to the enigmatic mind of a child stammerer. His hobbies are seasonal alongside his interests. Nevertheless, he is passionate about animal and societal welfare and the value of true feminism. Desmond was the Winner of the April edition, Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest 2019. He was first runner-up at the African Poetry Contest 2017 and was recently shortlisted for the Chronicles Short Story Prize 2018. 

PERVERSION by Logan February

PERVERSION by Logan February

by | Oct 27, 2019 | ISSUE, Issue - Poetry

PERVERSION

by Logan February

may be bad or good; must be directed  

elsewhere, always pointed elsewhere;  

at the reddish sex of cruelty; crushing  

an orchid’s softest eye, a gleaming leather boot;  

that hard shine like needles under  

a man’s picture; shot in his negative color. 

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)

PERVERSION

by Logan February | POEMS

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

LOGAN FEBRUARY is a non-binary Nigerian poet. He and his work have been featured recently in The Rumpus, Dazed, The Guardian Life, Lambda Literary, Washington Square Review, Africa In Dialogue, and more. He is the author of In The Nude (Ouida Poetry, 2019) and three poetry chapbooks. You can find him at loganfebruary.com

COLOURS AND THEIR EMPTINESS by Ìyàndá Abimbola

COLOURS AND THEIR EMPTINESS by Ìyàndá Abimbola

by | Oct 27, 2019 | ISSUE, Issue - Fiction

COLOURS AND THEIR EMPTINESS

by Ìyàndá Abimbola

This story begins with you standing at your father’s doorstep on Indigo Street almost naked.

It is raining and the sun is shining at the same time, so you say, God is confused.

Because houses on Indigo do not have colour, fences, or doors, neighbours see into one another’s life dealings so that if you stand by the mosque beside your father’s house facing straight, you will see a brothel, lined with those indigenous girls and women of riotous colours, ranging from really skinny ones__that you often imagine how they find their voices under huge men who come to fuck them__ then to the really thick-ass women__designed with horrible inks in the name of tattoo__whom you often picture if boys from the railroads side don’t get lost to between their folded vagina.

You have looked into their room so many-a-time while growing up, so you learnt that to be called a slut: you need a body that will feel everything except arousal when a man pays you for sex, a retarded foam stained with several dry fluids and ejaculations, condoms, and some dangerous pills.

However, houses in your street preach self-expression and that’s one thing you adore about it but you hate that it doesn’t practice it because Orange, the girl whom you share bunk with in College tells you that security only helps with you being protected but protection is not required if there is no chaos in our heart, or wars in our head.

She says you are exposed to danger the most when you are secured.

So, core self-expression turned something you seek in several rooms in Indigo but never did find one, girls don’t love girls in this street where you belong. It’s a punishable crime, and a deadly sin too. 

                                              ***

Indigo Crescent is sandwiched in between railway stations and a market area.

One of the railway stations is where your father works as a tutor, and an operator.

Your mother, a devoted Christian who collects house paints all her life__for a reason known to herself alone__is 6 years older than he is, but he commands respect all the same. At work: with mutiny and non-conformity, and at home: with love and tenderness. But your mother says her husband smells of burnt black oil in bed, and his palms on her skin feels like rusty burglary she always wants to escape, so she seeks solace in collecting paints and reading Christian prayers.

Oftentimes, you wonder if your mother’s voice really belongs to her, or if she has any hidden in her throat at all.

 One fateful evening when your mother sat in her room reading quietly some verses of Psalms, your father rushed out to pick a call.

Over the phone, you could hear rumbling sounds, to steadily increasing chugging sounds, then to hunks sounding like a forlorn call, while babies’ cry and crowd jostles puncture the windy coverage at intervals of dialogue. Your father didn’t call out a name before you figured out it was a call from the railway station.

You know what life there looks like: boys who are just finding strands of hair between their legs sit in burnt and abandoned trains oftentimes and share tales you think they never have.

Some of them smokes, and yes, some girls have kissed and taught themselves how to make love before, but they didn’t die that night, they died later because they were caught and still didn’t conform to hating each other’s bodies, your father was part of those who killed them.

Well, such is the life you live in a railway station; chaotic and untender and you don’t expect anyone from there to be different.

Your father started his conversation with several yelling and fierce gaze on the phone but it soon seemed to end in shock and pitiful gestures.

There was a letter from the governmental agencies, they wanted to privatize some railway stations.

 

                                 ***

You remained in your room that day listening to Charlie Puth’s Marvin Gaye.

Tunes blending in atmosphere of emotional sincerity and it reminded you of the day you first kissed Orange, peacefully.

It happened 7:45PM that night, you were meant to attend the “live, and let’s live” Awareness in Rainbow Randy Hall in College.

She had kissed you a day before, but you didn’t reciprocate the language of her lips on yours.

You feared torture, you feared shame, you feared insults, and you feared death. But that night, you felt the melody of her skin, and you decided to drown in its rhythm.

For the first time, you kissed a girl without fear, and you felt like the houses and rooms in Indigo: you suddenly had no fences, no doors, or some forms of security, but you had a colour, and you wore it so bright on your skin that night.

You remembered how you have always admired Grey when you were very little and innocence was the air you breathe.

You sat beside Grey in the train on your way to school one day and you looked at her fair thighs with admiration and lust, you thought it would have been a life more beautiful in Indigo if its streetlights current have been tapped from Grey’s vibrant thighs.

You managed to rest on her bare shoulder and smell it, her scent so good you wanted it to turn into river so you may drown in it, you continued to look at her glossy, too white eyes. You were smiling and just wanted to fall asleep inside them.

You love Orange because she is fierce. She helped you find your voice and even taught you how to use them like arrows, she asked you to carry your colours and never to be afraid of wearing them on your skin, but Orange died before you began to speak with the voices she left in you.

                              ***

The market area was silent that day really, that you could call it a cemetery, and so was the whole of indigo and the railway stations. There were half burnt tires and broken bottles, screwdrivers with blood and not oil on their mouth, and some bodies no one would identify, on the ground.

Your father had been sitting at home for several weeks, standing and sitting, sitting and standing; he was impatient and not convenient.

He was really calm now and he seemed to have stopped sexually abusing your mother’s decent body because she had reduced reading her Christian prayers and had totally stopped collecting paints now.

Your father was dismissed from work some weeks before now, he did what no one has ever done before in Indigo, he led a protest; that led to a riot, then to crises, chaos, then death and silence.

Your mother was in her room, and she would find her voice that day, she first came out to empty all of her buckets of paint to the gutter in front of your house, that gutter leads to the market area, to the cemetery behind it, further to places you have never been to.

At first she poured out Red paint, then Orange, Yellow paint, then Green, then Blue comes, before Indigo and Violet followed, the gutter looked like it now has rainbow in it, and the water would carry it to the market area, to the cemetery, and further to places you have never been to, and the whole houses in Indigo might find colour(s).

Your mother said something after she poured her last bucket of paint

It looks like something that’s been hidden in her throat for a long period of time. She said, “Prepare for darkness when it’s late.”

Then she went back into her room, lay in her bed and sleep like something that looks like forever.

So today, the end came to meet everything, including this story, with you remaining at your father’s doorstep in Indigo street, hoping it stops raining so Rainbow may at least come.

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ÌYÀNDÁ ABIMBOLA is a poet and a writer. He dives into creative writings for self-expression; expressions driven by a host of things that ranges from griefs and pains that come with boyhood, coping with loneliness, despair, and all of the blissful scars he finds on a woman’s body.

If he is not in between pages of books weaving another creative piece, you will find him seeking embrace in the abyss of a lady’s warm thighs or listening to sad songs. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria. You can reach him on Twitter: @AbimbolaJnr, IG: @iyanda_a_broken.door, & Email @iyandaabimbola4@gmail.com

PALMS OF OIL by Kolawole Adebayo

PALMS OF OIL by Kolawole Adebayo

by | Oct 27, 2019 | ISSUE, Issue - Poetry

PALMS OF OIL

by Kolawole Adebayo

I wondered as a boy

Why the flies always hovered

Around fluorescent lights

 

And one day, my mother said to me:

Kola, ọwọ́ epo laráyé ń bá’ní lá,

Ẹnikẹ́ni kìí bá‘ ni lá tẹ̀jẹ̀.

She asked me:

 

Do you see the flies hover in/around darkness?

I say no.

“When do you see them”, she asked?

“When there is light”, I said.

 

Ọwọ́ epo laráyé ń bá’ní lá,

Ẹnikẹ́ni kìí bá‘ ni lá tẹ̀jẹ̀.

Light attracts, and darkness repels.

 

Ọwọ́ epo laráyé ń bá’ní lá,

Ẹnikẹ́ni kìí bá‘ ni lá tẹ̀jẹ̀.

The tongue only lusts after sweetness,

The bitter things do not call to us naturally.

 

Ọwọ́ epo laráyé ń bá’ní lá,

Ẹnikẹ́ni kìí bá‘ ni lá tẹ̀jẹ̀.

Fame is no man’s foe.

 

The sugar cube lies there on its own,

Calls to no ants, but they come.

They come first in twos and threes

 

And then call unto others

Saying there is something for us here,

Come, let us make a home.

 

The sugar cube that welcomes every ant

Will soon be as a speck of dust.

 

A friend is not known in the crowd.

A friend is not known in the spotlight.

 

I asked her: Who then is my friend?

And she said: It is you first. Every time, it is you first.

“Who are the others after me”, I asked?

She said: Anyone who walks into your darkness

To experience it with you.

 

Ọwọ́ epo laráyé ń bá’ní lá,

Ẹnikẹ́ni kìí bá‘ ni lá tẹ̀jẹ̀.

The world licks the palms full of red oil;

No tongue craves the palms full of blood.

 

* Ọwọ́ epo laráyé ń bá’ní lá, enikẹ́ni kìí bá‘ ni lá tẹ̀jẹ̀ is a Yoruba proverb in South-western Nigeria loosely translated as “people follow after success, and no one looks in the direction of failure”.

Source: From the Rebel Issue (October 2019)

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

KOLAWOLE SAMUEL ADEBAYO is an old soul in a young Nigerian body whose poems seek to awaken human consciousness. His works have appeared on Glass Poetry, Button Poetry, Burning House Press, The Amethyst Review, Mojave Heart Review, Praxis Magazine, BPPC anthology, Kreative Diadem, and elsewhere. Kolawole won the April Edition of the Brigitte Poirson Poetry Contest in 2017. He likes to connect with his friends via his twitter handle, @samofthevoice.

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