Letters from a Wounded World: Four Poems by Folorunsho Ahmed Adekunle
4 min read
Old School Mail
Tell the big coat Santa Claus in grade-school walls, that his long cane can now have a long sleep.
I no longer need to be chased to fasten my always loosed bet and, my tired white collar that never stands straight. The man in lorry no longer needs to laugh at my tears - every morning and my sad dead body of Mondays - wishing the weekend never ends.
You can also thank the night moon & dew breathe, for sucking up my brownish-white ankle socks; that bathes only at night. Thank the woman living with big bold black coal-pot, for her heaven manner that falls in black nylon at every rush hour. Tell Musa in the glass-house gate, that my shoe is now shining, with loud a ko..ko..ka sound; through the aisle.
Tell the monkey-post in a foregone plot of the street, not anymore will it lure me to late night panel - I am now a judge in my own court with bigger goals to face...
Pay homage to them; the Barbie that dances on wall plasma, for her service of entertainment - I now dance to a new song of life with struggle rhythm. Tell the pages of exercise book to drop that scary look now - I have finally become a walking Library.
Thanks to the old school, that memories of me are outdated; a river pierced through that cave-bank. I evolved, and gratitude to the old school.
Phone Call from Goma
Hello Uncle! It is Kamb again
I have refused to die yet; today I am seven
“No! Do not wish me happy birthday”
I ran from the hawk eyes of the men with rod.
This might be my last call if I get caught –
Using patched battery Nokia
With a screen that winkles to Death, per seconds.
That being said,
I thought you promised we would make it to Aljazeera?
And the big screen in hotel rooms of New York City;
Spark anger in heads of bench in Addis Ababa,
Or maybe a banner and kneel gesture at football games;
With our faces painted on walls of blue bird community.
Anyways, I and other children are still in Goma,
It is twenty twenty-four; Leopold is still alive.
We are still breathing on hazy dust and grit
Schorr and scrounging Cobalt from tummy of earth.
“Mother?”
She is somewhere in the pit with her pickaxe, and
little Kufo dangling and crying at her back.
I heard it on air that Apple just gave birth
to their fifteenth child with three eyes;
and Elon now drives a truck
that beefs the Gas and Fossil Fuel station.
Looks like we are not leaving the site, anytime soon
And be out of sight of Artisanals;
Or get to Grade school.
Talk to you later, Uncle
If the rock has not fallen on my head,
Enjoy your transit to heaven of Green Tech World,
Talk to you whenever, Uncle!
Danfo Driver Cannot Be Blamed
There is still a sound from the West & Eastern soundproof walls, and a smoke wave roaring; It does not come alone in a Christmas season. There is another one beside the bedroom of a man with one stiffed arm; that one, they said, it is like a quarrel of Conductor & his Neighbour that tried to board a yellow bus out. You and I thought this should have ended. I mean during the dinner in San Francisco, after the German Machine married rope to his neck. There are still poisoned breaths, staining our ozone at this moment. Castles are still falling like a timber tree, children are still swimming in blood – this time, not Hiroshima, not even Nagasaki. Who owns these jets dancing, and balloons popping in the air? The man sitting at the last row said; they are the toys of five wise-men sitting at palace of earth – the preachers of peace – on garments of war – that never commit a war crime – the judges in their own court. How can you blame the Danfo driver? That the smoke of his bus is the only trajectory of Global Warming, and the ambient dust that is blinding eyes – putting us all on cardiovascular watchlist. What should we say about weapons in your nuclear arsenal that is still cutting the breaths of extended families – when the veterans of the last Sounds and Dusts of gun power, are sitting by their own grave. We are choking already - the death garbage of cancer is filled up. Will you blame the Danfo driver, alone, again? When there are still sounds, & poisoned smoke around – hindering our fresh breath. The Danfo driver, alone, cannot be blamed, for the climate that turns back at us – for the mess in the air. Stop bombing, and blaming Danfo Drivers!
Take the Needle Away
I am sick of the angel
and his white garment,
that he called a Lab coat,
Setting my back on wheels –
Tearing my belly apart,
thinking he can force words
out of me – or maybe
Stich the pain away.
Take away the stethoscope
far from my heart,
Do you want to dance
to the song of sorrow played there?
Stop filling my broken heart
with the concrete white chalk
you prescribed, three-time-a-day.
Also, please, take the needle away.
The water – dangling on me head –
Take that too and move me away.
I am in the wrong ward, please
Take me to words surgeon – to screw my head
Author: Folorunsho Ahmed Adekunle is a Protest Poet using poetry as a tool for social change, Plumbing Technician and a Political Scientist. His work has been featured in Decades of Nine Hills and Thrills (PIN for Wole Soyinka @90) Afrocritik Magazine, Edge of Humanity US, The Stripes Literary Magazine, Outside the Box Magazine, Waves of Words and more. Debut poetry collection, Adisa In The Ray Of Sun was published by African Book Collectives, UK. Founder Shelter of Freedom Foundation, Convener Poets In The Trenches Initiative and Street Library Project.