Melanin of Grief

At the stream,

my mother said she stepped

on the shadows of women measuring their

grievances with the foams of water. 

pouring their losses in the pots bearing

the alchemy of grief. 

& I ponder, how many of these women

walk with porcelain as a tongue

with the bugle of grief oscillating their breath.

In my town, there are certain roads you can't walk,

flowers you can't feel their blossoming,

houses you can't touch their walls

because they hold in clear terms

what keeps eclipsing into its shadow.

this is not a metaphor,

outside the night, a strange sound visits. 

a stillbirth looming for an embrace.

There are children searching for who to call 'papa'

children searching for love gathering dust

& there are some, fretful for nights. 

because each dawn breaks ahead. 

when mum sent me, I was walking on my toes

but, somehow, I tiptoed with my head

 to the hands whose lines map me into extinction.

The next morning,

I was told that I'm kidnapped & that

my family has to sell the remaining

laughter they borrowed to their faces. 

I frail, blur, faint & wrap my voices

in the form of mat & splitter them

before the melanin of grief

my eyes in the midst of mist

I can't look at their faces because

the man that murdered my sleep

also keeps a weird beard. 

About the writer

Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi is a budding poet from Kwara State, Nigeria. He is a lover of books and the people who write them. 

When he is not reading, he is writing & when he is not writing he is stuck in the day dreams of Kemanji —his hometown. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Synchronized chaos, Angel rust, Kalahari review, Arts Lounge, Teenlit journal, Pine cone review, Kissing Dynamite, Borgu book club and elsewhere.

He is on Facebook: Adamu Yahuza Abdullahi, Instagram: official_yahuzeey, and Twitter: AdamuYahuzaabd2