HOW DINNER COMES IN MY HOMETOWN
by Ayòdéjì Israel
perhaps, this lunch of smokes with dried bodies and red wines of sad bloods
with elegies of jubilation fumed in the air whenever a fork rattles a flesh is no more redolent,
my neighbours packed in a pair of chickens last month to fete easter,
today, their–the humans–flesh & blood
have been melochized for their–animals–iniquities.
for this, my heart choked for having breath!
in this poem, there is a metaphor that avows the parts of a woman /slaisis/.
& in my hometown, a ware of fishes typifies pillage of human bodies,
my big aunt was late outside in the fog or the cloud of darkness sinking that night,
her body was found sliced like a body of onion with machete of rituals in the next day.
i got lost in the cave of despair that night!
in my hometown–/we must sow in order to reap/– they say
but for my kinsmen, they sow their seeds and reap the soft soma of their /si:ds/.
even now, as the old pillows of this rain are being shaken, i still wonder,
if this spick burden of waters shall be enough to lave the strains of folks
from the jugs and cups we take our dinners from, everyday…
if the rain ever falls.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Ayòdéjì Israel is a student at the University of Ibadan, Ibadan, Nigeria. He hails from Abeokuta in Nigeria. He is known for being a poet, writer, political activist, and many other things, and he is 21 years old.
