At the time of the day, when the
yolk of the dawn
wasn't explored. I rose from mama's
bamboo bed with
morning staleness in my mouth &
I set out with a clay pot
in my arms–to fetch from the virgin
stream.
My unshod cold feet sashayed
down the road with an infant hope
of carrying the
clean, cool, calm and cold water in
my clay pot. It's
long I appeased my lungs with
some fresh liquid.
The road was long, I must tread;
The paths were
crooked, I must move on. Fate
and feet dragged me
to the stream & then I shed some
hot tears;
tears mother shed when she stripped
an onion of its skin,
when she breastfed me & when
she offered prayers
with her palms facing the empty sky.
My eyes blinked on my silent face.
Stray dogs & goats &
men & gods were ranting, fighting,
smashing pots &
shedding bloods in the stream I was
coming for; they
had deflowered the village stream.
I tried to turn away, but was
chained by the
fresh memory of thick dregs I
sipped yester night.
I had dreamed of swimming against
the tide. But how?
Why am I here in the congested throat
of the village stream?
Maybe I have to turn the tide.
by Arikewusola Abdul Awal
Arikewusola Abdul Awal writes from Oyo state, Nigeria. His poems have appeared on ila magazine, willi wash, Teen Lit journals, Literary Yard, The Yellow House, Eboquills, Thirty Shades of Roses Anthology, Broken chunks of hearts, World Voice Magazine and elsewhere.
photo by Virginia Magat
Aayo Magazine 