Epiphany of Roses

And once, after we realize he will never be the same,
my soon-to-be-forgotten brother mentions home.
Not the one he left alive, but rather the one he’ll be returning to dead. Like the
whispers of rebels crying for change in places where it is scarce–
The body’s hunger for justice it knows may never be served.
And this is in the city at dusk. We pass the old courthouse,
past the faded murals where he once passionately etched his name onto Terracotta,
day after day.
We journey past all the street corners, into the congregation of silent walls – often watchful
at this time of the day,
the near-boundless shadows that draw us closer to the sanctuary of roses.
And this is after countless weeks of bathing under the Sun God,
With the days of blind faith behind us.
I can sense that mother is both furious and amazed,
There are no guarantees, she says,
and he says I know
But we persist in our pursuit of him anyway.
The darkest times are already upon us.
He doesn't even hesitate, casts his voice through the streets.
It must be the fleeting triumphs we hold onto. Like a lifeline
extended to a drowning soul in the heart of tumultuous waters. Like the allegorical figure
finding solace amidst chaos.
Like a soldier abandoned in a land that was once theirs.
There is no more danger to fear. To resist with weakened resolve
is to ignite a spark in a blaze of defiance. It’s a metaphor,
perhaps!
you hold the power within your grasp,
now that it can no longer break you,
not any faster, not any harsher, not anymore.


If One Must Resist, They Do So Together

I
Through the translucent barricades of the city streets, it is easy to perceive
which manifestation of oppression lurks, as if it, too, is kin.

It is easy to witness the assembly of voices united around a common cause,
partaking in an unwritten pact.

It is easy to be electrified by the way streetlights illuminate the scene of yet another
individual who can no longer breathe freely as they clasp the signs that bear their demands.
And they caress the pulse of the crowd as their existence becomes more defiant with time. And they wail in the blood of friends.

Their spirits are so attuned to justice that even in its absence,
they are willing to be emboldened by the hope of its resurgence.

For this same reason, despite knowing the odds, my community still ignites fervent prayers,
an invocation for transformation, beseeching for extraordinary shifts to be realized.

But hope is a narrative device for the tale that lies ahead, intangible but pursued
nonetheless.

But oppression dismisses our offerings of dialogue and appeals to reason,
repeating patterns it has always perpetuated.

II
One night, in the midst of protest, I held tight to my comrades' arms as we stood together,
listening to a chorus of chants that echoed like silent prayers from our throats.
In that moment, our chests swelled with determination, undeterred by the weight of the struggle,
the aftermath of injustice, of enduring a system designed to suffocate our dreams.

And we persisted, fuelled only by the shared verses of resilience, invoking stories of unity—when our
existence is fragmented. A consequence of the battles fought for a world that refuses to relinquish its hold.

III
And the next morning, after a surge of resistance, the oppressive structures do
not crumble, my community raises their voices, loud enough to be mistaken for chaos,
then, we fall silent for days.

The absence of words, the absence of silence, side effects of hope—how, when it fades, it
leaves bruises; how determination becomes, like belief, the substance of things longed for but not yet seen.

But hope is indispensable, I've realized, in the way that [for a while] it keeps the world awakened.


My Brother Falls, But I Refuse to Follow

my brother falls on a concrete street amidst a series
of rituals to etch his memories within the fractured murals
of his existence. the officers cannot discern if he is merely convulsing
or leaping with anticipation (perhaps dread) at the clamour of a procession
of voices chanting their righteous demands for the ten-thousandth
time this day—in frequencies only the oppressed would perceive.
I struggle to express this otherwise: there appears to be nothing novel
or extravagant about resistance, at least to those enforcing power, only the culmination
of the body's countless agonies, a gauge of how much of these
the body can endure.
while my brother falls, my sister strides forward with a sign of solidarity
and freshly printed flyers that proclaim truth and demand justice. the officers are too
occupied engaging in an absurd tug-of-war in which my brother is just
one end of the rope, the other being the tendrils of authority extended
to suppress him further. to quell the uprising. but nothing seems
adequate for this purpose:
not the tear gas grenades launched fiercely to choke his breath or the rubber bullets
piercing his veins, not my mother's anguished cries,
let me see…let me see him,
as she is dragged away by disillusioned enforcers,
not the collage of scattered flyers—their words of resistance now
scattered on the pavement like fragments of shattered glass.
and death, the enforcer herself, the always looming presence becomes even more
immediate. adorned in dark attire, metallic chains swaying around her neck, she hovers
over the scene, feigning concern, yet clutching the bloodied baton
with which she pulls him, pulls us. but we refuse to follow.

About the author:

Erinola Daranijo is a poet and avid reader based in Ibadan, Nigeria. His favourite themes include elements of Nigerian culture, love, loss, and grief. He also enjoys experimenting and oftentimes writes out of his comfort zone and enjoys experimenting with various, sometimes obscure, writing styles. He takes influence from literary greats like Chinua Achebe and J.P. Clark. His works, which have received great acclaim, have been published in magazines like Brittle Paper, the Hooghly Review, the Kalahari Review, Auroras and Blossoms, amongst others. When he isn’t writing, which is rarely, you’ll most likely find him taking a well-deserved nap in his bed. You can reach him via Twitter @Layworks.

*Feature image by Markus Spiske on Unsplash