Eid-al-Adha in Beyerunka

The rawness of dua blooms from the rusty
blare of the central mosque this festive season
again—slain blood stroking open slabs, skin-
scrapping cows' fur inflated with the blessings
of Eid. All the corners of Beyerunka give-away
tidings from door to door like salaams. A man
wretched in misery, pushes a dirt-cart over some
bones, harvests them and disappears into several
colours of attires congesting this season with life.
My mother's kitchen is not a gathering of vanity
today, but shadow of pale emptiness exiling into
nothingness. Doors aren't retiring from collecting
visitors like children taking money from strangers
who want to beat their pockets to the recklessness
of almsgiving. Today, even stillbirth maizes on dry
stalks are at peace, the farmer's yam is in good shape,
his farmland uncolonized; Beyerunka grows crumbs
for the goats to purge their belly with, for the fowls
to fillet the ground like a miner, and beak-pick left-
over blessings. Across, some men sit round on cane
chairs under the grace of a tall tree like cult groups,
and begin to sport on whose calabash would hold
the last drop of palm wine, and a small boy takes

a cup brimming with thanksgiving up to Allah.

Self-eulogy

In my place, christening a newborn
is an adventure of root-finding. One's name
is an index finger pointing to his fate; a path
leading to the history of fathers of fathers.
But I, Kehinde, am a twin who arrives through
the same path my first kind has plied. My name
is a cluster of syllables pulled into my body from
the heaven. Oruko mi, amutorunwa. Like the dawn
comes with its dews, I christen myself in the cry
of my arrival. Everywhere I go I carry regality
around like a god awaiting the fortifications
of ritual eulogies. Kehinde; the second of two yet
not the less. The barren knock their knees down on
the ground with rivers of desires drowning me in
their woes of infertility; sprinkled supplications
in marshed palm oil beans. Before I come forth here
I find a wretched belly, and say to the first of me,
step in and make room for us, and he does the same
at my word. In return, we fill her dwelling with loads
of cowries and bring songs of pride to her doorstep.

About The Author:

Olalekan Daniel Kehinde (he/him), NGP XII, is an Afro-being, essayist and poet. Daniel is an award-winning writer. His poems have appeared in PIN anthologies, BPPC anthologies, The Peace Exhibit Journal, African Writers Magazine, Inkspired anthology, Woven Poetry, The Shallow Tales Review, IbadanArt, Upwrite Magazine, Poetry Column NND, SprinNG, Agbowó, miniskirt magazine and lots more. He currently studies English and Literature Education as an undergraduate in the University of Benin, Benin City, Nigeria. He is on Instagram and Twitter as @dapenmustgrow

*Featured image by Peter Cusack