Stories from Young African Poets

I was a teenager still when I got to know grief personally. I would sit alone in my room reminiscing about the memories we shared & I would write poems that came right from the heart, unlike the rhymes I wrote, which I believe are more of intellect than expression. 

for her sleep-sedated lambs who will awake later & demand flowers

So because I was ‘smart’ in class and a little rebellious, I got away with telling the teachers I would not do any of that reciting poems with other kids in class, which is a bad thing retrospectively, but I mean, utilize privilege when you can.

 I’d never forget the day he died, Marzuq looked me in the eye and I saw how much pain he was in. He was just nine months old. He was laid on the bed, as usual on his back for his siesta.

the loss of a father who was also a mother, the pain it carries when you lack the love that was once bestowed upon you and you were told to become a man. 

I would tear pages from my books and write what I felt. Unfortunately, my mum found the papers. I was beaten black and blue. I stopped talking and writing. I now write like my life depends on it, because it does.

I confess that I too would die to reach for the clouds. half abstraction. clouds which exist in half abstraction. you my dear, exist in half abstraction as

I cannot write a poem that does not originate from some deep part of me, and usually, these poems feature people, things, or situations I feel connected to. My mother’s poem being my first significant poem just reminds me that I have not lost that part of me even as I get older. I am grateful for that. 

When I finally meet her I will bloom satisfaction Pluck enough to reshape into hope Track back to this moment and Seduce the small skeptic sizes Of me into waiting a bit longer