EID ON AN EMPTY STREET
Shall I tell you how I burn out?
Stand out, speak out, yet my desires echo back in silence.
Last year was another Eid without him,
Another tease without a team,
A full picnic table, yet no tangible tale to tell.
All I kept hearing was
“When will this empty street come alive?”
“When will this city find its name again?”
Again and again, like her fellow Pinky’s,
Like walls that bear the burden of a broken mother,
A country grieving in quiet collapse,
A praying wind, a walking mirror,
A strategy soaring, yet a bitter reality
And still, I want to taste it.
So we stand, stranded, in the eyes of helplessness,
On streets that resemble the hope we chase,
Yet refuse us his print.
But how can I even complain?
Another Eid is around the corner.
But who cares for the city’s longing?
Who?
Just a fleeting comfort I seek.
THE SILENT INGREDIENT
During my visit to see what bromate looks like in bread,
I saw certain tips and steps kept safe like a medal
A procedure, primed for emergency consumption.
It was light, dark, and bright in the laboratory,
Where the name potassium bromate echoed in the air,
Where we ran into an imaginary journey,
Seeking what is what in what is about to be.
Our craving eyes fixed on the ongoing process
Principle, dilution, density, percentage.
A slice of bread, cut and placed in a petri dish,
A boiling tube raining drops of solution,
Forcing it to react
To resist the urge of comfort,
To change from its color,
To reveal the presence of texture enhancement,
To fight for a place destined for its existence.
It bowed before a rising agent we once belittled,
An open fact, far from our expectations.
This is a norm, an agreed storm.
And so, it changed from yellow to purple,
Right before our naked eyes
Eyes that fuzzed and mumbled in disbelief.
Indeed! We met potassium bromate,
Present in the bread we offered for sacrifice.
And with ease, we found knowledge,
In that box of bromate search we ventured for.
THE PRICE OF GROWING UP
Till today, all my heart craves is an urge
A sudden pull on the heart’s cord,
A wish, a desire that faded after being lost in search.
Yesterday morning, I told my teddy bear not to stare at me again,
That I am now a grown baby with an elegant nature.
I shunned her presence to hold on to what the present holds,
To mourn and honor its arrival from the south.
Her presence is seen as a child’s prime,
While I try to readjust to adulthood
To fit into the shoes of being on my own,
To reside with “do it yourself” and find purpose in life.
I couldn’t bathe her or plait her hair again,
Like in those days when she cried,
Enduring my terrible, constant complaints.
I am stuck finding myself,
Busy building my empire
A kingdom where my voice shall be heard and recognized.
So I hold on to this day,
To this world and the reality at stake.
And I walk up to the future’s frame,
Only to find myself walking with a stick.
Saadatu Uzairu is a Nigerian writer, poet, leather worker, and a farmer from Adamawa State. A graduate of Newgate College Of Health Technology, Minna, her work has been featured in notable publications, including Brittle Paper, Words Rhymes and Rhythm, Literary Cocktail Magazine Anthology, innsæi journal Anthology, and forthcoming with Sea Glass Literary. Saadatu currently resides in Minna, Niger State, where she continues to nurture her creative pursuits. Connect with her on Instragram @saadhatuuzairu
Cover photo credit: Serinus