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.
My poetry was informed by loss—the regurgitation of constant emotions from the influence of this loss.
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."
When I was young, despite not knowing what poetry was, the lines stayed with me from the very first time I listened to the audio on my sister's phone.
Meanwhile, the infectious energy of Yoruba movies drifted in from the living room. My dad, a fervent fan, would often have them playing in the background. The booming pronouncements, and the lyrical exchanges, often delivered in poetic verse, were a constant companion to my afternoons spent with African poetry. It dawned on me – both the poems and the movies revelled in the power of words. They held the magic to weave stories, paint pictures, and stir emotions, all with the simple tools of language.
In this hometown, my uncles have feigned an onset dementia. They have made caste difference, the mark of a malignance. One is taken to the backyard shrubberies , to be uprooted with exasperation. To be done away with wrath.
Last year, I wrote poems influenced by various fruits, melding their physical traits with cultural meanings. A nostalgic childhood memory of oranges and my mother's love for them vividly resurfaced, inspiring a haiku I greatly enjoyed creating.
