Handicap

Handicap

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.



2 thoughts on “Handicap” by Nzube Ifechukwu (@nzubeifechukwu)

  1. 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.

    1. @chimzorom thanks for reading. thanks for your comment.

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