Arabia.
After Aria Aber.

The cattle clomp their sore hoofs at the breeze 
sweeping on their backs, the thorny straps of herder 
men swinging beyond the road. I do not say

destination seems a near house till you see 
how close you are to the beginning. In the dessert of 
dreams, I am the body submitting to the ridges of 
sands, 

they said the road is a sweet song when you know 
the eulogy of exile. The woods gather every 
fragment of rain into the loud cry of crickets, 

howl of hounds, the still of water as the still of 
moon. Night is a prayer in exile, with glossy stars 
that burn into the conscience of men. Arabia,
 
I spite nothing, we parted for peace & reunion for 
war, you said the hand that pushed us into darkness 
is our revenge in light. I blend into 

your bath, water sings me clean, your guilt are little 
boys bearing  large headdress, seizing my time to 
advertise melted candies. Arabia, 

we are humble supplicants, you teach my hands the 
hold of  God’s body. Every Inshallah is the 
resurrection of dead hopes. 

Arabia, what is my luxury when my silence is all I 
choose over roasted Madfoons? What shivering 
burns between my lips? 

You offer a coach, a pocket sized Adkar, a room 
turned into music by late night horns & when 
mother calls, I gossip of your indulgence 

for colors & the cold of your Zamzam. I 
speak true of castles in sands, & bellies 
filled with ice of your tea. Arabia, I pray for 
you, I do 

not pray for my restlessness.



 
Pink lines.

     the cackle tells the hen has 
 succeeded over birth, a pack 
   of heads cheers out, we are 
    celebrating the death of 
   fireworks, the rest of the 
street kids’ screech. i wish for the 
  loss of harmattan, the 
   asters, little daisies of the 
   patch now becoming dust-
brown, spreading towards the 
  old house the boys refuse to 
   repaint their gods. i soak the 
    last of my tea, you said it’s 
    lite, the neighbor flaunting 
     their new speakers with 
   common folksongs. i do not 
say my comfort is silence, the 
   dragonflies burning the wings 
   of daylight. two-year old berl 
   thinks the speed light a gun, 
   we laugh our realizations. i 
   trim my nails, the tips like 
blunt razors. we are weekend 
  sitters, your hands dissolve 
  time with video games, the 
cctv carrying the back of our 
heads as if we are different, i 
search the room, it’s only us, 
  camera flicks how 
  photogenic our solitude 
  looks, brie melting in the 
potbelly, you tickle me of my 
   shame, i scramble to nurse 
   the plants, you ask what the 
  test result was, i do not say 
   back to you. darling, in my 
    dream, it’s you who is a 
child's father, & me, pulling 
the pram into a city of mums.

About the Author:

Born on a Friday in December, Fatihah Quadri Eniola is a young Nigerian Poet. Her work has appeared in literary journals like Brittle paper, Rigorous, ice floe, The Shallow Tales Review and elsewhere. She is a nyctophobic and lives with a very cute cat, Honiy. She is also an active fellow on Twitter: @FatihahQuadri

*Feature image by PixelAnarchy from Pixabay