Stories From Young African Poets: Of Care and Motherhood, Nnamdi Ndiolo Manoeuvres

Surely, death is a lensman sneaking up on the fierce beauty of magma, of liquid sun…

Due to circumstances she couldn’t control, my mother was absent for the better part of my growing up; I was almost an adult when I met her. For this reason, I often eliminate her in my work, a reflection of her initial absence becoming the present in my poetry.

Although this poem speaks to the loss of my mother, while also paying homage to the very essence of womanhood, my mother is still very much alive and well. In an interview with Chimee Adioha of Black Boy Review, Ukata Edwardson once said: “The truth is, in all reality, every piece of art and literature performs a little lie.”

But there is no lie here, not in the real sense of it. This poem was inspired by numerous events, happening over the years of my growing up. What sparked its creative direction the most is the art of reminiscence. As aforementioned, I didn’t grow up with my mother; my father was the sole parent in my life then. And for this, I always longed for the emergence of my mother. I ached for it; you can see my longing for her in the last lines of my poem.

So, sitting down and immersing myself in the hurtful memories of when I wished my mother was present to fill the void that ached with the need for maternal care I gave voice to the grief.

Sanctuary With My Father’s Loss
After Playing Robert Burns’ Aud Lang Syne

All the heavenly bodies are dying like Mother did.
First, it was the moon, bright as the skin of spring,
falling from the sky like acorns hiding Akon’s blues in their throats
& then the sky ensued like a Tiktok challenge arriving my roof as a jet of tears.
Hear thunder. Hear the voice of heaven falling from a womb ruptured by grief.

My father, silent as a monk,
beholds a moth extolling the flame of the alabaster candle,
like the candle were a slaughterhouse and the moth was whispering; This is my body…
What unique antique parading inside death’s museum draws the living to it?
Surely, death is a lensman sneaking up on the fierce beauty of magma, of liquid sun.

As I strum pianissimos on my piano, an Aud Lang Syne rattles in my throat.
I untether the caged song; it fills the room like a swarm of butterflies,
breaking the pain with their grace & my father’s eyes fertile into an oasis,
a souvenir from death's visit.
there are no maps to heaven, just like there are no maps to happiness,
still men on broken streets will look for God in bottles of Hennessy Cognac
pomegranating the pink of their throats to exorcise the latent grief,
whorls of mist effusing from their tulip glasses like incense from a benediction.

At dawn, the wind collapses its lungs into an elegy,
and the elegy raps its knuckles on the door of this poem.
My father holds this poem by the handle, leaving the doors open with the hope that
when the sun decides to fall, Mother will feather in with the light rays.

Lines from Romeo Oriogun’s "Maps"

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Hannah Omokafe Dennis

Hannah Omokafe Dennis Is A 24-year-old Journalist, Voice-Over artist and UNFPA Adolescent Sexual Reproductive Health Rights Advocate Living In Nigeria. She Currently Serves As A Community Manager In Konya Shamsrumi AndHas Some Of Her Written Works Published On Writer's Space Africa and audio stories on Genti media. She Enjoys Using Words And Her Voice To Tell Stories. She Tweets @Omokafe_forite.

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