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

well being. 


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