Hunger; A Game of Thrones
you failed to recall the memories of your forebearers-
that night, you sapped the milk of the
weary eye of the night, your might
was light. you forgot how father taught us
how to hide our skin, make it glow, and look like
the incisors of the angry Cannibals feasting raw- how to be within the
mist of collect - and - don't - give...
you forgot how it was poor to build together for our
stomach, a balanced diet, we die - ate of the diseases
we built ourselves with, shook off
our balanced appetite to the sands - and called
Nature many names.
you forgot the day that came before New Yam,
how funny the land refused to spew the seeds of our sweats,
looking poor like a disgraced debtor. we went into the
huts staring at the beautiful weary faces of our selves.
we hoped to become murderers even when our mothers
mourned the fate of the morning that brings silent nylons
of emptiness from the market. Lost to smoke fishes, and vegetables...
you forgot how it was hard to remember the cries of the
lungs in our wombs, how they struggle for life, for the Kings,
for Chiefs, how they built a home there, born kids and nurtured their
you failed to know that the tears in our faces are a fight
to the bruises in the plights our stomach...
homecoming and songs
do we not pity the junk in the mad man's face,
craze? do we not fall into his craze?
do we not feel for the lice chopping this old woman 's lace?
do not tell me the dance to your weariness is
a song of suicide- I don't want to hear
you mention graves. talk of saves.
you fall many times, and frail, fail, you cooked
yourselves futility. there is a song of madness in
what you wear. you sit by the fire and
spit at it, you say you hate it. you say
to cry is the pulley to draw you out of pains
your gains are a drop of grains...
that darkness is what you eat. night. you refuse
to let light glow & your injured father is not
enough for a conscious. instead you
still sit by graves. you fail to talk of saves.
the sleeve you wear is a seat beaded with dropping
sweat, you pant.
Seriously, this is a letter of pangs.
I want to play you a music, a radiant sweet
voice. If you listen to "Simi's Aimasiko" let your hope
turn into a fire that kindles, that combusts- anger in
its eyes. let your fire dance tomorrow's joys.
let it frown with laughter
prepare for my homecoming. I have talked to mother
concerning this plight. she is at the stream's narrow
pathway plucking leaves of survival...
© Shitta Faruq Ademola
Bio: Shitta Faruq Ademola is a Nigerian Poet and writer. He has works in the Boys Are Not Stones Anthology and Wattpad