for Bakare Oluwasegun
Boy, have you been told of colours —
of petals, that you're not one of 'em?
boy, have you been told of the night,
that the sky heard your shrill 'neath one?
boy, have you seen the thin prints of
your palm, that it's unlike mother's?
boy, have you heard your voice lately;
in the waves of shrill and gentle
tempest of silence— the mutter,
the heart murmur as Israel's day,
the tone, lost in your barytone...?
have you, have you, have you heard it,
that your selfhood is unveil? and
you know, we free-ly freeze images
and copy and paste emotions
on last birthdays, and...your selfhood
weeps in the African Black boy.
you're an idle tree yet with it
are whisp'ring leaves, and you have gone
to th' world as Ajala travels,
and, your identity isn't
on your palm, and your voice is lost
beyond where you've sought it yet they
are in you, greeting your face in
the whirlpools of your wishes and,
no one as you once lived this sky,
you 've come to live, from heaven,
with differ selfhood, manhood, being.
and you have come to live like one
in udying living of 'earth-lys.'
hold your breath, boy, find your reason.
Akinwale Peace Akindayo