Àtìpó: The Stranger I Have Become
In the trenches,
darkness chewed my bones,
spitting out my shadow like ash.
Hatred’s ember glowed in my chest,
a piece of coal I couldn’t swallow,
a harmattan wind drying my throat,
leaving me devoid,
an abandoned, cracked calabash in the Sahel.
My heart cried out for comfort,
for the aroma of roasted corn smoke,
for a hearth that remembered my name.
The bush in the mind:
hunters’ guns belched steel into the quiet,
their echoes expanding like drums in an empty shrine.
We gathered under the cashew tree’s shade,
sticky sap clung to our fingers,
stories dripping from our mouths like palmwine,
laughter shivering within Suwe’s rhythm.
The thrill of the hunt,
the comfort of friendship,
our bodies coated in dust and twilight.
I tried to fit in,
wearing the Agbada,
a blend of cultures,
but the more I assimilated,
the more I came apart in fragments,
shards of my mother’s tongue
rattling like broken beads in my throat.
My identity fragmented,
a mirror broken by foreign hands.
I longed for the familiar beat,
the pulse of Afrobeats in smoky bars,
basslines rising like incense from the earth.
In this oyinbo obodo,
I am a stranger.
My tongue tastes of exile,
my skin glows like an unwanted moon.
Boundaries rise around me,
walls built from accents, gazes, and silence.
The weight of my colour,
a heavy kola nut,
split but never shared.
I long for the familiar,
the trenches’ rugged comfort,
where hunter-traders roamed freely,
free from the bonds of courtesy.
I would ride okada through dust storms,
carving wind-joy into my cheeks,
exhaust smoke baptising my skin with home.
But here,
in the palace,
freedom wears a jewelled mask,
and I suffocate on its scent.
The Owanbẹ Thieves
rice steaming as incense—
offering itself to joy.
I thought my labour
was altar-fire,
my service a fragrance
of gratitude,
but my hands were washing plates,
my back bending
like an abandoned broom
left to the wind.
The Owanbẹ thieves,
smiling tricksters veiled in Ankara,
teeth sharpened daggers,
pockets bottomless calabash.
I watched them drink from my palmwine
as if it were their mother’s milk,
with their oil-stained mouths
smearing across my tablecloth,
their laughter
louder than the talking drum,
yet sharper than a blade
pressed to my skin.
I built my ASO
on rock-solid foundation,
but they arrived like termites
in borrowed agbada,
gnawing pillars,
dancing in my sweat.
They renamed themselves
like masquerades,
slipping skins
with chameleon grace,
their eyes sparkling
with the dust of untruth.
Their brazenness resounded in my ears,
limitless
as the trumpet of nightfall.
They borrowed names,
borrowed honour,
borrowed faces,
but never borrowed shame.
They left me standing,
my joy unravelled like raffia,
my empty pockets
a hollow drum.
Their footprints scattered across my floor
testify louder than praise-singers:
this is their culture—
to loot the banquet,
to drain the gourd,
to tie power
in a rope of lies.
Cartography of Suffering
on the cartography of my soul
there’s a torn map, scarred by smoke,
a country hemmed in by starvation,
where even the air tastes of rusted coins,
and the cost of breathing
is a quiet tax levied at dawn.
here,
every morning limps barefoot,
carrying vessels of hunger,
and all sunsets drown like burnt oil
deep into the abyss of our despair.
I walk these streets,
individuals sporting invisible whips on their backs,
their laughter splintered like cracked glass,
yet their lips elongate
like frayed flags forced by the wind to dance.
chaos crowns itself king.
order lies drunk in the gutter,
and safety is a spectre
that vanishes at a whistle in the evening.
the watchmen fold their uniforms like wilted flags,
leaving me candle-lit,
staring into the jaws of night,
naked of protection.
i was born here,
with aspirations fluttering like caged creatures inside my heart,
dreams of climbing beyond the rust of poverty,
aspirations of greatness bright as morning dew,
but my wings beat against iron skies.
and here I am,
in a country reeling on tottering stilts,
where rulers quaff the people’s perspiration
as though it were palmwine at a feast,
their tongues fat with deception,
their eyes covered with gold dust.
i’ve seen their shadows grow plump
as my own shadow narrows,
stretched on ground
that trembles under my feet.
that man with the big eyes,
the larger glasses—
he views the world through cracked lenses,
coercing me into inheriting
his blurry, askew vision.
perhaps he’s after my tongue,
to restate his distortion,
to pen adversity
as though it were scripture.
but i resist.
I make my own syntax out of scars,
I write resilience on my body
like a drum that refuses silence,
and though the map of my land bleeds,
my vision rises, sharpened,
a blade of morning sun
that dispels the darkness of despondency.
Olamoyegun Noah O is a poet, content writer, and microfictionist from Oyo State, Nigeria. His work draws inspiration from society and everyday life, always carrying a personal touch, as writing remains his truest form of expression. Facebook: Olúwa Gbéminíyì. Instagram: Olúwa Gbéminíyì
Cover image credit: Pexels