By Chisom Charles Nnanna
We cannot tell the children that there is no hope — James Baldwin
I
A caveat: in these lines, a speeding bullet isn’t
a prologue to oblivion, but the exact portrait of grit.
Since I started poem-ing, I’ve been a paper plane
mistaking every wind for a direction.
A familiar tongue once asked what I write
and why I write it, and my lips unlearned motion.
Today, I am storming this room that has spent months
collecting strange things:
a dead country that isn’t dead,
a future buried before its birth,
children written off for being born here.
I’m turning the room upside down,
and burning shadows pretending to be the sun.
I’m determined to show despondence
that the grave isn’t the only ending I know.
II
My little sister is my biggest cheerleader.
Once, she sat on my lap and asked
if she could ever have a future here.
I was mute.
Mute because I was afraid of the answer.
Because I had spent too long feeding my eyes
the library of grief,
too long admiring magicians who could make
a wound looks like a constellation.
She never asked again.
But I’m ready now, sister.
I’m ready to answer.
Yes.
Yes, a lily can blossom here.
The rainbow still appears here.
There are mouths still lodging laughter here.
There’s a woman birthing a beautiful boy,
and girls growing without apologies.
There’s a boy who isn’t breaking here,
and couples finding true love.
BIO:
Chisom Charles Nnanna has been awarded or placed for the Singapore Poetry Prize, Shuzia Poetry Contest, and Tush Magazine Bi-Monthly Writing Contest. His work has appeared in Feral, Singapore Unbound, the B’K, Brittle Paper, and The Shallow Tales Review, among others. He tweets at @ccnnanna.