The cruellest of deaths is the voice
locked in a box,
or a name that can’t
pronounce itself.
Let me be more direct:
Somewhere right now a brother is
frantically searching for himself
under roofless structures
&
falling bridges.
He punches Siri with salty question marks
& she yells at him with
an apology of
silence: nothing. Nothing.
Sorry, we couldn’t find what you were looking for. Perhaps you might
want to search for the meaning of another name?
The mirror’s a bit more courteous,
a bit eager to tell him that he has a
name. That he is not
in- vi- si- ble. But his tongue has
forgotten the chords
that play such words, such mantras.
They say time heals everything.
Everything?
How do you read the rhythm of a heart
under water?
Does time know where to find & undo the last words of
a drowning voice?
What if everything that happens after we’re born are merely
stones gathering to mark our graves?
I’ve seen it all, haven’t I? I’ve seen how patience becomes a
thief, & integrity a thing for the
trash bin. I’ve seen how the rain picks what farm to
bless, & how the moon withholds its milk on certain
nights — forgetting that some nights are pretty darker than
others.
Daddy always said a good name was better
than all the gold under
the sun . . .
he should’ve named me
Gold.
Chisom Charles Nnanna (or simply, Runnyink)
writes from a small corner somewhere in Ilorin, Kwara State. He’s pursuing a B.A. degree in Mass Communication at the prestigious University of Ilorin. He is runnyink_ on Twitter/Instagram.
