Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi
WHAT I REMEMBER OF MY MOTHER
& like the theory of quantum mechanics—
I do not quite understand why the things
I want never want me. I once hold laughter
In my arms and it wilts between the spaces
left of my fingers. like, every part of me is
a sieve. I wear dead songs on my tongue.
names. bodies I only recognize by the tinkling
of bells shackling their breathe. Momma told
me about this space. & on that day there was
a thunderous storm gushing, receding into
waterfalls. I know my home is where mothers
bathe their sons with their tears. Where dreams
are unfinished poems waiting to be written.
the poets are sea corals enclosed in the
shells of grief. there is bag of grief knitting
my tongue. & this is how I wake up—
counting bodies jiggled betwixt
headlines like a child does to the alphabet
he just memorised. like some sweets, our
tongues know the taste of grief. I am sorry,
all I could recall are images with fainted
colours like a multicolored clothe smashed
in hypo solution. & that is exactly how we sit
& watch the rigours of peacelessness smash
our peace. my mother's waist tie has grown
to be home where she wrap her fears. every
mother sings when doing chores. mine grieve
distorted hymns: the lilt of our lineage. & in her
head tie, she shreds the shards of wounds she
never knew she began to bleed. she once drew
her self on a wall & mistook her shadow for an
Angel's wing. i did not blame her, what more
could an eye that sees mammoth bodies
winking inside each time it blinks possibly
see? every headline wakes our bud & then
we enter rooms we never know of its outlet.
I mean, here, we are havoc waiting to strike.
souls awaiting deaths. I wonder what will be
left to bed the ground when the flesh washes
away from the body like a dry leaf frailing in
the wind. & in this room, you care to enter?