While We Walk With Our Ghosts | A Poem By A Nigerian Poet

The song we sing are like the basking of the guns and the revelation of the gunpowders before the bullet go on a spree, we search our breath in the...

Photo credit: pexels

WHILE WE WALK WITH WITH OUR GHOSTS

The song we sing are like the basking of the guns and the revelation of the gunpowders before the bullet go on a spree, we search our breath in the hurt imprinted like a mask on our fathers' faces, holding moments the eyes wished they were blind to see. The hours on our hearts are weariness heeding the bruises when our pride were torn in the centre of the villages and our pieces were too broken to be patched.

We are gods, they say. Kings who brewed wine form the bodies and drink from the skulls of who despise them, giants that wear the faces of their ancestors like the wrapper on a woman's waist. We hear when the war announces and prepare for its wrath.

We are gods they say, vipers that crawl through the stomachs of their mothers with scars and torn souls. The adages livens on our tongues and our breathe outlivens the crest of the wind.

But are we? If the truth herein hides its face from the reality and spite me of my foolishness. 

Hence, while we walk with our ghosts,

Sing me a song

With my father's lips

At the last minute

When his eyes spoke the silent parables of pains and guilt

Should this darkness overcome.

Come visit me with flowers.

Daisies, preferably,

And inscribe a cross mark on the stone of which I lay

Sing me a song,

A song of a mortal trembling at the heat of his past

Who lost grip of his memories

And wanders around his home, but couldn't own it.

Sing me a song,

A song from the mothers whose child never saw the dawn on the 7th day

A song from the cursed lips of  widows whose husband's head crowned the spikes

A song from the stuttering lips of boys who fed from their guilts

A song from the ghosts who wander around for a host.

Sing me a song,

 A dirge, for the six feet and an inch

A Willow, for my heart withers like grasses battered by the cold dried breath of the harmattan

And NF's, for none sings the hurt better.

Sing me a song,

My ears crave a new voice aside the silent whispers within.

POET BIO

Adedeji Raphael from ilesa, Osun state in Nigeria. He currently studies law in Adekunle Ajasin University. He has interest in coding. He draws and paints and also hopes to own an art gallery in the future.

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