Since today is the last day of the year, I thought this poem appropriate. If you had a bad year in 2016, well, here’s your chance to forget it. This poem first appeared on Novel Afrique on August 3, 2016.
We found the first brother hanging from the ceiling.
The second brother had eaten his death.
Our sister who was about to conceive
had torn her flesh and brought out her child.
Looking under water is scary. The blue is right in your face, and all around you, like being in the belly of a blue-eating monster. (A thought would come to my mind later: blue is not an actual colour; very few things in nature blue. In fact, many languages don’t have a word for blue, because the natives couldn’t see it.
I used to do a bit of photography, but my camera broke, and I’ve not been able to get back to it. However, these are some of my favourite photos of 2016, most of which have already appeared on my Facebook Timeline.
I wrote this early December. Thankfully, now, Harmattan has come. It is December and the sun rose early to the sky today in all its fierce intensity, loyal as a meek servant of Sango, the choleric cornrowed lord from whose lips shoots its heat like a lance.
Reality is greater than we can ever imagine – and this is where the problem lies: we always imagine reality, and because our imaginations are products of our knowledge, there’s a limit; a boundary.
I have a lot of friends who encourage me by reading my works. One of them is Abimbola Olayeni, who was my course mate in school. Recently, I sent her a memoir piece ‘d written.