Would You Not Bless Me, Mother?

Mà’ámí, I wish to slay the ocean, 

defying its breadth by touching its end, 

Only then will I learn the science of birds.

                 How do you intend to slay the eternal ocean?

             A dragon that's seen its end has promised

         to help me fight for a steep token.

But why not learn this science in our backyard? 

Bring the token, your siblings will feed off it.

There are unplanned storms in our sky

raining acid on our bald heads— 

the ground sinks too, swallowing all light.

And beyond the ocean, none of these abound?

No, Mà’ámí, their king has a canopy that spreads 

farther than our aged king's eyes protecting the sky, 

hiding them from such abominations.

But tough times, they say, birth tough men,

You breathe truth, Mà’ámí, but time runs on- 

even as my skin toughens without essence.

My son, our lands will cry should they

ever taste the absence of your delicate heels

My tongue will quiver from the absence of the 

gbegiri and ewédú, you bathe me in. 

Even still, tomorrow, with its quiet hand, beckons me.

Would you not bless me, mother?

© Balogun Ayoola Joseph

 

Glossary

Mà’ámí — my mother

Ewédú — a Yorùbá soup

Gbegiri — bean soup