BIRD OF PASSAGE


& if only he could see, the road home free of pumps and full of light, 

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I write about a black boy. Descendant of slaves. He wandered around without a map, his unwavering backpack adhered to his feeble shoulder. & it was hefty with; wallet of worries & fears. 
Artifacts like pressures, hurts & uncertainties. A sketch of dreams, mangled hope, how & when. His thoughts — a bottle filled with fatigue. 

Then at the hour of cockshut on the field of reeds, where the moon is closest to the ground, by crimson & clover he was found. There sat he on the anthill, waiting.
For starlight to unclutter his way home. Maybe he would tell the world of his parents’ tales.

Of how they were never heroes. They only woke up on the silent market days. They worked for bags of hope & mercies. & poverty bent their backs under the weight of humility. The sun burnt them brown & their blood was all black, as if they were all bereaved of light.

Then one morning, blood dropped in the air. Father sought after the road that could lead to fortunes, but famished was the road that took him as breakfast. He sown sweats and reaped death. 
& mother, she embraced fate but shed blood. & he, their son, now lost on his way to gather rocks, for rebuilding his family wall stretched like falling sands. He promised to wear the cloak of heroes, that was never worn by his ancestors.

Then there he & his backpack lay side by side, amidst the heart of reeds. As the moonlight spread over them. & if only he could see, the road home free of pumps and full of light, if only he didn’t embark on another journey, in his dream where sleep was his driver. 

© Ayomide Lawal

Ayomide Lawal is a Nigerian writer, poet and a linguist to be. 
She's a poet for Arkorewrites, and some of her works has been published in Elegance Dreamers Anthology. 
You can connect with her on WhatsApp 08104680447.

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