Scars.

Scars.

My father’s tattered house breeds red demons,
and my mother’s kitchen feeds black spirits,
We grew up loving demons and black evil spirits that flies in the afternoon.
Our neighbours keep their eyes away from us,
They shut the eyes of their dogs when ever we are passing by,
Even their goats know the sound of our footsteps.
We become sour and bitter to their craving eyes but our faces are always friendly,
we draw the lines of fear in the hearts of our neighbour’s children.
They run and run and run with despair
At the sound of our chorus.
They assumed we carry demons and spirits in our pockets as we walk by.
They fear the lines on our faces,
They fear the jigida on our arms,
They fear the marks on our forehead,
They curse the morning to pop if we were the first they see;
They fortifies the sand in front of their houses as father’s footprints plant on them.
They call us unprintable names with
A flammable tongue.
We wear shame and disgust around our neck chameleoning like the chameleon.
The scars drawn,
We become a mourning song that remove sleep from eyes.
Blemish created,
We became the architect of evil that the villagers never had.
When the world becomes silent, and busy legs no more walk,
Their hearts become our drums.
Children shriek from different corner
at the sight of our thatch roof.
Accusation fingers pour on us daily,
Legs hide from us as they see us coming,
We tried forming another body to be
Sane from our unknown sins,
But our bones, tissues, muscles, veins sailed away from their roots.
These are our scars,
A scars created by what we don’t know,
They call us “Osu”, a caste from the gods but, shall we become an empty birds in our own land?
What kills most of us are things we don’t know!
Leaving our shadows to wander in the dark is like a pimple on a corpse.
Innocence is a fool in the hands of tradition,
Ask your father the different between your left and right hand before he kicks the bucket.
We’ve lost a map of who we are!
We’ve missed a road tour to our root!
And grandfather is gone to abyss but these scars of discrimination remains.

Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent



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