Sand house The last time I saw her, I was four. The grip of rainfall on that season was Like hands around the throat. And it was an April, after the hesitant Outgoing of the dusty winds of harmattan. Sand house evening. We squat On the chilly sand ground and Build: piling brown petrichor Scented sand, very gently, Over our divine little feet; Molding like art entwining itself Around the soul. When we were through, it looked Like the Great Pyramid of Giza. There was an irregular hole at its base With the cryptic visage of a chasm. I started to think of it as A bottomless pit: dark and dry and infinite. Amidst the bustle of the streets, There was a woman quite unnoticed In plain tie-dye wrapper and That blouse she rarely wears: A cloak for the scars that won't heal. This was my mother leaving For the first and the last time. Necklacing Eight years ago, and less than a mile from my grandfather’s house, an angry mob killed a man and burned his corpse. Necklacing. The petrol-filled tire burned through and through until naked, stiff and charred flesh was all that remained. The young man, an Igbo, reportedly shot his Yoruba landlord’s daughter. Some of the witnesses testified that it was a mistake, but the irate crowd were too antsy to reason, their clamors of “We refused to be terrorised in our own home” rent the afternoon air and made the town quiver. After the deed, the perpetrators fled, leaving behind only the sickening smell and a statistic was added to the world’s pain. Now. This is not merely the story of how a man was lynched, or about the men who did it. This is a poem of livid, raging disgust at the devilry of the voices whispering that the young man deserved it, and all the bigots around the world who live with their hate around their necks, burning our world to ashes.
About the Author:
Taiwo Akinyemi is a Nigerian poet and short-story writer. His works have appeared in publications such as Praxis Magazine, Odd Magazine, Okadabooks, and Literary yard.