By Abdulbasit Oluwanishola
You don’t have to reach the pharynx of the river before
you stumble on your people—on their carcasses.
water is careless. it even stomachs dirt. it shakes hand to the filthy
proposal of men. and don’t ask about your mother,
it is evanescent. it is the autopsy of your people.
you’re not the sieve—the body that cannot retain light.
it only takes a minute before one could see the sun
rays through your face. shadows just like traipsing over a light.
tomorrow, outpour tears for your people—
your mother. your father. your two sisters. the man who
turned your palm to the space he squeezes his tokens into—
don’t pin them—they’re your antibody
through this storm. through this drought.
see boy, i know of thirst better than any desert.
i take breezes swinging around as my mother’s embrace.
i disallow whispering into my ears. my father’s voice
is tuning somewhere there. many times,
i split like clouds bereft of water—
dehydration. hypocalcemia. come boy, let’s sit here,
at the end of this poem. i, too, belong to its opening.
let’s make a votive: today, tomorrow and the days after,
we are not what a river would forget it swallowed.
BIO:
Abdulbasit Oluwanishola, SWAN V, is a young Nigerian poet and essayist who writes from Ilorin, Kwara State. He’s studying Agriculture in Usmanu Dafodiyo University Sokoto. He is the winner of the PCU Eid Celebration on-the-spot poetry contest 2023. He is shortlisted in the Dawn Project Writing Contest 2023. His works are up/forthcoming on A Long House, Kalahari Review, Visual verse, Ninshãr Arts, World Voices Magazine, Full House Literary, Invisible City, and elsewhere. He tweets @OO1810107.