Poet of the Week: Balogun Teniola

And Melancholy Made Us One I see the blood Forming a repulsive graffiti on the floors. I hear the gunshots Ringing in the air Producing a melancholic melody. I listen to the screams Going in rhythm with the triggered bullets. I see the pain in their eyes As a reflection of me. We became one […]

And Melancholy Made Us One

I see the blood
Forming a repulsive graffiti on the floors.
I hear the gunshots
Ringing in the air
Producing a melancholic melody.
I listen to the screams
Going in rhythm with the triggered bullets.
I see the pain in their eyes
As a reflection of me.
We became one in this anguish
The pain makes us a replica of one another.
If only it was the opposite.
Hope comes as a whisper
One I can barely hear.
The agony sounding deeper
My eardrums bleed.
Everyone patiently waiting to see
Where the story leads.
As it writes itself with it’s bloody ink…
Our blood, an ink.

 

Harmattan

It graces every December
With its cold dusty armour.
And gives this little school girl
A perfect nightly laundry thrill.
Her uniforms will be aired out by morning.
Bake kids brown in the afternoon.
Mothers will have lots of cleaning to do
But it’s the beauty of childhood.

Dry dusty man,
You’re not very kind to the maize farmer
Though the onions are smiling.
Let’s tell the gardener to always wet his flowers when you’re around.
Whoosh!
Remind the traders to cover their goods.
The maize farmer still prays for the rain
But that hungry water seller hopes you stay
To help him keep many throats dry.

Dry dusty man
You’ve made jagged walls of the beggar’s lips
His feet begging for Vaseline.
His body brewed in your armor.
Let’s tell him it’s not for long

Balogun Teniola is a poet and freelance writer. She is a 200-level Human Kinetics student from Bayero University, Kano.