I am swarthy, swarthier than Udogwugwu’s impassive
countenance. Every night I lie, like a green
snake skulking its predator’s sward-surrounded purlieus,
in apprehensive anticipation of day.
My hazel eyes are Granny’s snuff store;
my nasal bore Ojadili’s fetish-flute.
Little children can, for firewood, fetch
my gnarled legs.
My visage is bumpy,
with a visual contortion here,
a nasal distortion there,
and lips protruding like a shrew’s.
My hips may not be amphora-rounded,
but it’s a hip all the same,
as it never
fails in its fundamental duty.
Hmm. Good poem. I sense a certain frantic passiveness to the tone of the subject, like one who’s been in the situation long enough not to care anymore about appearances… one who having known ridicule has grown a sort of immunity to curious glances and stares but is fragile at heart. Who knows how different they are but are resigned to fate.
Hehe, I’m getting all analytic but I think this is a nice poem and “handicap” here could go beyond physical.
Ok, lemme stop. Kudos.
@chimzorom thanks for reading. thanks for your comment.