Let’s sing tonight
about the hibernating stars,
the grudging moon
and the grave silence of the skies,
in high-pitched staccato,
in chortling language of memory –
childhood,
to say: “God is busy
making more friends for us;”
in Mother’s penitent tenor
to say: “God is sad,
regretting that he created man;”
in Father’s drunken agnostic bass
to say: “God, if not dead, is
roosting like a fowl” –
blasphemy! Mother snaps.
*
Memory is a confluence,
like the State of Kogi,
an oxymoron,
like the Ikogosi wonder,
a cacophony, you know,
a puzzle;
and several curiousities beg for light
from the aloof skies –
to which Mother daily made us cry
for Father’s salvation,
for “divine intervention” in the country
led by “principalities,”
for prosperity that seemed to be running
from our noise, from sanctimony –
but our assuming Alex,
the questioning parrot,
was blasphemous to Mother,
preposterous to Father;
and dissenting, “treasonable” to leadership
whose creed is “silence is golden.”
But stoic tonight, we sing threnody
for funeral of our docility;
in ghastly memory of the slain.
BAYO ADEROJU
is a poet, essayist, playwright and fiction writer from Nigeria. He holds a first class B.A. in English. His works appear in Praxis Magazine, Spillwords, Kalahari Review, Ngiga Review, Nantygreens, Sub Saharan Magazine and The Shallow Tales Review, and forthcoming in Platform Review. You can find him on Twitter @bayo_aderoju.
