Poets of the week… Dogubo, Olatunde, Adeyinka

HI everyone, today on poetry in motion we have three of Nigeria’s finest poets who would be taking us on a poetic journey, serenading you not with love songs but with words that is like a cup of warm water to the soul

First, is Hannah “Fragile” Dogubo, a daredevil in stage performances. She is the current winner of the War of Words (WOW) National Poetry Slam Season 8 and alsowinner of the Abuja Literary Festival (AlitFest) Grand Slam 2020. With an incredible appetite for life, the graduate of English and Literary Studies seeks to carve a niche for herself in performing arts and in Cosmetology with her  hair and skin care brand: Nubiette Beauty.

This very vocal poet is passionate about the demystification of Mental Health and other health-related concerns.

I am not just the statistics

Not just the percentages on spreadsheets

My life is not just a figure of speech

My death should not be rounded up to the nearest decimal

I am not just props for news outlets at mass burials

An inscription on protesting placards

Nor momentary hashtags on social media

My body is not bread to be broken for communion

Among brethren indoctrinated to hate my contrary opinion

I am not fish bone stuck in your throat provoking gag reflexes

Can’t you see?

I refuse to be sacrifice slaughtered for the cleansing of sins

My life is not atonement for your broken moral compass

I no be sheep

I no be scapegoat for the enablement of jungle justice

This constitutional oppression disguised as social obligation infringes on my human rights

How many times do I need to enumerate the minority is not synonymous to a suppressed denominator?

This mathematics of an existence give the probability of variations and differences

What I am saying is

There are no square pegs in round holes, we come in all shapes and sizes

In all ethnicities, religions, political inclinations and sexes

What happened to “agree to disagree”?

Why does a contrary opinion have to get me killed?

How many brothers of mine would you turn to firewood to keep your cold heart warm?

How many gruesome murders ought to be covered up till rotting bodies become manure?

Listen to this protest of a poem

Is humanity just a fancy coat worn only on special occasions?

Is violence the nudity exposed when we take it off?

How do I make you understand there is no difference between us?

That these monsters created could one day show up at your door?

E fit be your body wey dey for this floor

E fit be your own blood

This poem na cry for help, so lend me your voice

My vulnerability does not make me endangered specie

I have a right to live and live free

I am not just the statistics

I am not just the percentages on spreadsheets

My life is not just a figure of speech

So put an end to the violence

********

OLATUNDE Brain is an altruistic writer and poet; his debut book, Beautiful Love Pond, a poetry collection for love birds was nominated in the Young Adult Category of the Authors Academy Awards. He believes that self-discovery is one of the greatest achievements of man. When he isn’t writing, he is blogging about Yoruba history on yoruba blog. He’s on Instagram as @brain7days.

Letter from a slave man

I AM your ancestor

These tears flow from 500 years ago

Centuries past they took away your fore-fathers

They gave me their words

I shall arrive at a place where prosperity abound

I left everything I own

Including my masquerades and my sun,

and the flowing river from which I made my soup

I left my footprints in places where no one could see

I hope you will write to me when you find it

As soon as we arrive in Monrovia

I was tied up in strings along with million others

All having  identical colors

Some speak from a different tongue

Some look as familiar as mine

These men paraded in cassock

While we March with no raiment

Are these chains my fare to paradise?

I might have asked too quiet or so I thought too loud

Everyone looked in terror

An old man asked me; Might we return to our land?

I uttered a loud silence despondently

These shackles clasped my breath

I could no longer smell the morning sun

On frosty nights our feet cry for warmth

Every Sunday is about Bethlehem

Your mother’s vagina became a repast to the sailors cock

He would have her for dinner until the oceans cry

I say to her; Take no punches and let the fire travel through

You become impassable when you fight back

So look me in the eyes

 I am your ancestor

Deep-rooted is your history

Your murky hair was a message from me

I am your messiah as written in the book of John;

For these things took place that the Scripture might be fulfilled:

 “Not one of his bones will be broken;

 “They will look on him whom they have pierced”

Like metaphor waiting to escape the hunter’s dirge

I held on to a tiny string of hope

I held on to you

I bribed death to smell your breath

Now that you are here

Remember these scribble on my skin

These lines you call marks,

are the rails with which you will journey back home.

********

A woman is a firework of resistance

What are fireworks in your mother tongue?

You say fataki or wasan wuta?

On Kallingard’s farm;

It was a black woman whose courage was hidden in a matchbox

How does it feel to be constricted in your own nest box?

Stashed in a pit; our tongues warbling for a tomorrow yet unseen

They came to fetch your mother tonight

A goat being ridden to its demise by a harmful of butchers

Bleating her prayers in the corridors of her heart

She locked teardrops inside of her

Her legs sang monodies as they travel out of sight

Between her thighs was a coffin

She; an embodied travesty of hope

How does one dine with a mosquito just so you won’t be the feast?

My wife read bible verses over her last meal

The masters showed no symptoms of haste

They shared liquor with loosen pants and symphonies of laughter

Your mother was a brown cigar; carelessly placed on a dark cushion

She sets fire to herself and clutched kallingard at his body

Swerving through the room with a deposit of inferno at every turn

She burns, they moan, kallingard seized to live

For the first time, fear escaped our hearts

Your mother was a firework of resistance

She made me shed a tear, it rolled halfway and turned into a smile

*******

ADEYINKA. O. Atilola is a writer, Model, Vlogger/Blogger, podcaster, and author of three books. When she is not writing, she loves reading and would give anything for books. She is also a student of medicine at the University of Lagos

ON most days, I really hate being a woman. In this part of the world, women is synonymous to disrespect and disregard. My gender is taught from an early age to carry silence in their bones like it is a victory mark. We are taught to accept things that even animals do not go through.

On some days, I really want to dress up and look sexy, in the red dress my mum bought that shows my cleavage, it makes me feel womanly and I want to embrace it because it shows the little curves I have and from being made to feel like nothing for those little curves, there are days I want to revel in the joy of seeing them.

On some days I just want to look beautiful, let my hair down, and wear that top that accentuates my body, it took me too long to find the gold buried under my skin because for too long, this soul was pillaged by treasure hunters that dug and dug, leaving empty holes that they never bothered to fill back after they were done.

On some days, I want to post my pictures on Instagram, the one that shows my boobs, I want to have every right to get offended when I get mad at a man that leaves how beautiful my eyes are, how perfect God made my skin and decides to focus on my boobs, I don’t want to get told that I should dress how I want to be addressed, I don’t go pointing out the dick of men when I see them shirtless, the hypocrisy stinks, I feel choked.

I really want to walk around Yaba and every other market and not choke on my fear with my heart in my throat, begging and praying I’m invisible to those men that act like vultures. I want to walk and not feel like I have to tone down whatever sexy steps I made hold in my body because a man will feel like my sashaying is music to draw him in to touch me for no reason.

My boobs are tired of being grabbed by random men. Aremu on the road has touched me more than the men I have loved. My eyes are tired of shedding tears because this body is not treated like the temple it is. I don’t want to wake up and hate my body because I am a woman. I want to breathe.

TheQueenAtty