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 narration of Ayobami's childhood, Ayobami takes us through the world of politics in a certain Western Nigerian state and why mathematics is not his best friend.
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.
And then one day, everything stopped. We felt too mature to indulge in such childishness. Adulthood slowly began to toughen the carapace of our tenderness. We were estranged from each other too as a new variation in location dawned. I relocated to Ibadan alongside my parents.
They could've raped our neighbour, and only God knows what they would have done to us hadn't for the intervention of other farmers who heard our screams.
My father passed on within weeks of me being born. I did not get to see him nor do I know if he got to see me. I learnt that he was late by going through the family album and seeing the funeral photos. We had a tradition of going to see our grandparents every school holiday.
