Memoir Of A Poet

Memoir Of A Poet

When I wake up in the morning, I hear cockerels tingle like a town-crier with their voices as I release my body from the calmness that the night has wrapped around it. I hear my hand and my back cry as I stretch them to honor the beautiful day that has just come to welcome us with beautiful fruits. I baptize my flesh from bacteria and decorate it as I embark on the journey that will wage war against my empty pocket. At that period, I see myself smile at the day when the night comes to pay our world a visit which makes me lift the weight of struggle at least, not till I’m done fighting this war. I’ve always whispered to my mind that it shall be fruitful like the African mothers of those days when we say the eyes were dark and for this, I would turn my ears against my crying veins till my hands have reached the top of the orange tree where I shall plug the oranges that I always eat in my mind on empty stomach. Then, I look at the home from which I come from and saw the roof filled with holes and the bricks cracking then I said to myself again “I shall remold this when I return”
Yesterday, my neighbor asked me why I act like insects that store foods before the rain comes to reveal its kingship and live like birds that sing sonorously while setting forth to fulfill the desire of nature but when I tried to unravel this misery with my steps each day, he told me I was speaking in a hidden language. I often wonder, how do I point at the path for which I’m sailing? How do I describe the stars and the terrors I encounter on my journey? How do I describe the demons that come to attack my home with the help of vicious men? If I fail to speak in this language that grows within me when I try to voice out my anger for the withering plant of my black home and my starving eyes for the beautiful children she will bear as I help to feed her with the ink of my pen.
As a child, I knew I came to the world to build myself and rebuild my home but my eyes were not clear enough to realize that my mind was different from those around me. As I grew older, my mind began to transition to a world of giants. In this world, I saw words transform into different creatures but as a young African child, I was terrified of the kind of woman I was gradually becoming. My mind was turning into a library and my head began to see vision which my hands couldn’t point out in the language that was spoken around me. One evening, while I wanted to birth the stories in my pregnant mind, the words began to divide itself into verses and stanzas and I began to speak like Wole Soyinka, Niyi Osundare and other great minds who brought the world closer to me in a piece of paper and I embarked on a different path.
I have become a distinct creature that sees the world from different spheres and reveal it in the language that could better describe it. When I think of a king, I see a crown and a scepter, when I think of blessings, I see a showering rain, mention a word and this language shall help me describe with images and on this path I have spooned my mind to grow into motherhood.
For this reason, I could beat my chest. If I do not live like a cockerel that got swipe away by a flooding rain, I shall nurture young minds into giants with my words and great minds shall fill their libraries with my name. I often wonder how beautiful heaven would be and when I think of this, I see a mansion filled with amity and hear people speak in poetic languages. Also, when I transition to the world beyond when my hairs have borne grey fruits, I shall smile at the I’ve lived and sing sonorously with the heavenly to celebrate the creator of the universe and the immortality of poetry.



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