Sun City

By Káyọ̀dé

The foggy morning splits
my lower lip, blisters
the flesh that refuses to submit

to its whiteness. I slip out
of the embrace of my mother’s Ankara—
and no blanket warmth rivals

its old snug fragrance.
I am twenty rivers and hectares
of forests away from home,

but the season must do its chore;
chisels the softness of my soles
into jaggedness; snatches the

elegance of the oil from my body;
tints my hair with the residue of
the fog. My nostrils—

a loose faucet on the face
of a motherless child. On the dusty path,
children are wa(l)king into the embrace

of an unfazed weather,
the chill tugging at their feeble frames.
Each gust of wind, a mockery

of my woollen cardigan.
Phlegm, thick as the morning pap
stays lodged in the throat,

the withered leaves drifting
from a whistling tree. No smoking chimney,
no burning ember to weather

the ember months. My bed and body,
each warming the other,
anticipating the arrival of dawn.

BIO:
Káyọ̀dé is a Nigerian and an African literature enthusiast, interested in Academics and Yorùbá translation. His works have been published or forthcoming in IceFloe Press, Olongo, Àtẹ́lẹwọ́, Poetry Sango-Ọta, Isele, Ake Review, South Florida, and elsewhere. He was shortlisted for the Ake climate change poetry prize (2022).