8. Broken lines and empty graves

I used to be the daughter who told tales with my mother’s bed beneath my silver spoon

Now I am the careless daughter who’s lost her damn keys

I am lost in this old city

Where the white act black and

The black lose their pride as they are stripped of their garment

And the brown wallow in the predicament known as their religion

 

There is no finding myself in an already absent root

I have lost what seem to be the cause for my waking each day

To stand like a seed planted into concrete

And no hurricane can pull the ground like a rug beneath my pretty feet

 

I remember the first day I set foot into this city

Perfect dialect seize

Language embedded hidden in order to avoid applying for class clown

I have always heard stories about how my blood will run for the hills when it sees Lucifer coming

 

My mother has always told me

‘Ron ti ile ti o ti ja de wa, kor de ron ti omo ti iwo se’

Which means ‘to always remember the house I was brought up in and always remember the child of whom I am’

Daddy would love that.

But her words strike neither faith nor fear like a gun to my head would

Those are nothing but washed down words,

Passed on from generation

One time, some kid took her for a sucker

Stole her shoes and

Left her to suffer consequences

She walked bare footed home over 5 miles

Only to receive some beatings

 

 

In this big old city, my days are out of place and it is no longer news to me

My tongue loses all its definition, no it don’t speak African

In this big old city, I have created a sanctuary

My glasses remains foggy and my perception of home is starting to look crystal clear

I am the living highlights to everyone’s Saturday night television

Entertaining others with my lost self

While I listen to the recital of my life be told back to me

 

Mommies turning in her grace

The taste of her tongue has lost all its meaning

The mouth of babes that once voiced out stories of liberation is no longer speaking with wisdom

As if without these colonist

I will still be a savage

Flying from trees

Lay a banquet before me, he’d say

 

In this big old city

Where the white act black, as

The black lose their pride as they are stripped of their garment, whilst

The brown wallow in the predicament known as their religion

I choose to be the exception

Emi o son nu mo

No longer will I be known as the careless daughter who lost the silver keys once cherished

No longer will the words of an atheist be the judge of my faith

No more will you beat me in telling tales of liberation once told to me

No longer am I lost.

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