Cento

By Michael Okafor

I promise you this poem won’t have any laughter.
I have squandered all the joy inside me. I am tired
of carrying myself. Most days I pretend to be dead.
Nobody knows where this poem ends—this poem
thinks it’ll end happily. Nobody knows where it’s
headed. A dog empties its voice into the dark. I am
traumatised but I do not show it. See how grief
batters the mouth into bloody acceptance. Darling,
are you writing another poem about trees? No, not
trees but the city irrigated by blood. The hot tongue of
a bullet nestled in the folds of my brain, genderless and
spectacular—like a misguided applause. The bullet
misses everything but its destination. The only
metaphor for death is itself. Forgive me, I am used to
disaster. I am a boy seeking existential relevance. I
dance towards fire—it’s not my fault that you tremble.
A house on fire is still a house on fire. All the air
carries now are pocket-sized grief—let’s pretend neither
of us is here. There’s no God watching us. God is
nothing but a shift in language. How much misfortune
would we carry before God weds us to light?
I am trying to afford my life.
I am too poor for literature these days.

Sources: [Njoku Nonso, Onyekachi Iloh, Ernest Ogunyemi, Adedayo Agarau, Michael Imossan, Abdulkareem Abdulkareem, Pamilerin Jacob, Timi Sanni, Jide Salawu, Nome Patrick, Hassan Usman, Prosper Ifeanyi, Chiwenite Onyekwelu, Zaynab Bobi, Adesiyan Oluwapelumi, Samuel Adeyemi]

BIO:

Michael Okafor is a member of the Nwokike Literary Club. His works explore the human condition. A fellow of the SprinNG Creative Writing Fellowship ‘23. A first runner-up at the 2023 SprinNG Annual Poetry Contest. His poem was longlisted for the Briefly Write Poetry Prize 2024. He’s on X @okaformichael_