My childhood was made of poetry. It was every fibre of metaphors, imageries, Riesling, stanzas and lines. It was every figure of speech. As a child at a very tender age, one could already feel the bang of emotions, even before becoming a teenager. What more can be more poetic? Mentally adulting before even becoming a teenager has its dark and light sides.
For a childhood like that, there are a lot of stories that influenced my poetry. Perhaps, I should finally talk about Marzuq. The one who came and didn’t stay. But he didn’t leave without a fight. He inspired my first poem on death titled “Lost Soul”. Marzuq was caught between life and death for the whole of the nine months he lived on earth. Not a single day of a normal life did he have, not even the day he was born.
Marzuq could not pass faeces through his anus right from day one on earth, so he was operated on the stomach. Marzuq’s faeces came out of his belly from the day he came to earth till the ninth month when he left.
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. He slept and woke up. I checked on him, I sat on the bed and took a long and deep look at Marzuq as though I had not been the only one who knew the art of carrying him apart from my mother. Nobody else could carry him because of the chunk of meat that stuck out of his belly, the part of his skin that every person except my mother and father and the Doctors are forbidden to see. Not even me who knew how to carry him so well.
He just lay there, weak and not being the usual Marzuq that will at least fight to be vibrant or smile. His eyes looked bigger like they were going to pop out of their sockets. I saw him try to lift his hand but somehow, it dropped. He was looking into my eyes until I was about to reach out and then, he slipped his eyes away from mine, like he didn’t want me to see his whole being slipping away. I took his hand into mine, but he slipped it away. I thought he wanted to rest. I thought he needed more sleep. I left him and went to the sitting room to play with my other siblings.
My mother went into the room when I left. I heard her talk to my father on the phone. I was not paying attention because I was with my other siblings. A few minutes after she spoke to my father, they rushed out with Marzuq, and they came back a few minutes after they left. My father held Marzuq, and my mother was crying. My brothers and I didn’t understand what was going on. We saw people trooping, into the same room where Marzuq slept. They wouldn’t even let my brothers, and I go into the room. I didn’t understand what was going on. My brothers did not either. We were just children in primary and nursery classes. Although, I knew something was wrong. My Dad’s younger cousin came. She rushed into the room as she struggled to keep her veil intact.
“Who should bathe him?” My father’s friend asked.
I wondered when they started allowing strangers to see Marzuq’s nakedness and talk less of bathing him. The same nakedness that was hidden from my siblings and I for nine months. They even locked the door when they wanted to bathe him. Or change the covering on the side of his belly that was operated on whenever he passed faeces. And now, they were asking for options of who to bath him?
I wanted to ask my mother what was going on, but she was inside the room. My Dad’s Cousin sister came out of the room. I held the hem of her dress, “Aunty, Wetin dey happen? Why are there so many people plenty for our house?”
She looked down at me. “Marzuq don die…”
I screamed. I rolled on the bare ground. “My baby, my baby, my baby” I kept screaming. In between the blur of my tears, I saw some women pointing at her and their voices husky in between my screams, I heard them say, “she is just a kid, why did you tell her?” My Dad’s cousin sister carried me up, “I am sorry. No cry you hear? Just pray for him.” But I couldn’t stop crying.
I had hoped Marzuq’s wound would heal, and he would be able to pass faeces through his anus. I had hoped he would grow, and I would tell Marzuq of when he was little and why he had a scar on one side of his belly. I wanted to tell him how much pride I took in being the one who could look after him after my mother.
I was lost. We had exams in school the next day, I was numb. I couldn’t write. The headmaster asked what the problem was, and I said, “My baby died.” I looked up at him, “I can’t write.”
Days passed. Weeks Passed. Months passed and I could not get over the fact that Marzuq died. It felt like his ghost was everywhere. Like I could feel him…
I have not been able to write of him until this interview. I am stopping here. I am not brave enough to go on. At least, I finally got to talk about Marzuq.
I loved solitude as a child. I still love it. There is this wilderness, wildness that comes with it. There is peace that comes with it. Most people in the art space wouldn’t know because I can be all open with arts; events, poetry, vlogs, and all. I mean, Arts is my safe space.
I do not know how to skip, or play ten-ten, and things like that because even as a child in nursery class, I preferred to be left by myself and my imaginations.
My first ever poem was titled “They Are Lonely, Alone and The Only.” I swear, I am embarrassed by this poem because right now I can’t call it a poem, but this is my first poem ever and it is raw and unedited so do not forgive me for sharing, I am unapologetic even though I am embarrassed. I will share anyway.
They are not scared of being lonely
They are not scared of being alone
They are not scared of being the only
They prefer the company of nature alone
They communicate within themselves while alone
Though they could enjoy the company of others from behind alone
Whenever they become the only in a world known to none,
They listen deep to their hearts, souls and minds
Realizing what their hearts wants and what needs to be done
Their views about others stays within them alone
Their fears could not be noticed by others but them alone
Their happiness could be noticeable but could not be to the world
Their world is mystery to the others
Their silence is speaking in their world
They are lonely, alone and the only but they are not
They are introverts.
Another poem that was influenced by my childhood was inspired by my father’s love for me. It is my second poem ever. I am also embarrassed by this poem because the poetic elements are not exactly there, but I am proud that I wrote it. Raw, unedited, unapologetic. Because it was inspired by my father.
MY FIRST LOVER
Walking in the garden
Full of flowers that
melts my heart with love
The green grasses,
The colors of the flowers,
The appearance pushed
My first lover and I to the
Land of beauty and love
Walking hand in hand
With my first lover to the
Land of beauty,
Where he keeps his tools of
Protection for me,
To protect me,
To fight for me
Looking at me deep with
Passion as he shows me the tools
He said: You are my Princess
And I am your King
Every King protects his
Princess till death and to death,
Physically and emotionally
His hand holding mine is comfort,
His his hug is safety,
His words assuring,
His smile is encouraging
And with him now and ever i feel safe
When my Prince comes
And takes me away
Far or near,
Makes me a Queen and He my King
O, I will forever be my first lover's Princess
And my first lover will forever be my King
I will forever keep my first lover in my heart
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