To See the Sun Again: Two Poems by Tukur Ridwan
2 min read
Insulation
To make up for what's lost to yesterday's storms—my zeal and grip on clarity—I once locked myself away from the planet's further storms. Probably lazy—housing this lethargy in poetry’s membrane. They say a boy learns to be strong by going to war. I cannot count on one hand how many wars I fought, to break through my fears, but I can tell what a war tastes like. Not until I let hot bullets burn my tongue till I lose my taste for life’s goodies. Not until I’m skinned of yesterday's grace. The Earth’s chunks have struck this big head. The chiding sticks and scornful stones hurled by careless children in play-fights. Not once, and not for the umpteenth time. I still carry the pangs in my medulla like a hawker in a rowdy market. Should I not know how to retreat like a struck soldier, what stories would I have told my child when the grim reaper’s jaws have crushed and ground my bones? Because a storyteller’s voice must not be lost to the storm, I armour my breath with silence and prayers to compensate for losses like a convalescing patient. Sometimes, I watch the hood from my window to see the battlefield every warm exchange shape-shifts into. The last time I shook hands, I felt every leg walking on eggshells, to avoid stepping on mines. Otherwise, the body might be thrown away like bombshells. A fighter throws in the towel, to see the sun again.
Breaking Free
To find relief is to be outlived by your exhales,
Mother would say. Sometimes, in a boy’s head
Is a storm, and his body, a terrain overwhelmed
By the wind of chaos, defying the intervention
Of sleep. The walls in his skull close on him
Like the heavens falling down. This might be
The beginning of obliteration, since survival
And death could start in the dark corners
Of the soul, yearning for meaning.
In my therapist’s words, I believe you have
The power to liberate your split persona
From this prison. Then I think to myself,
I hope not to crash. I do not want to be owned
By these parasites, eating and breaking
Their way out of my chest.
Sometimes I stretch my hands, hoping angels
Would descend on their chariots to rescue a boy
From these neural chains. Sometimes, I think out loud,
So loud like a volcano's mouth ejaculating lava.
And sometimes, my voice hides behind my
Moving lips, while I hope you read them
To understand what my demons are asking for.
Either way, I’m opening myself up for something
I don’t know, to fly out of my orifices. I’m only trying
To release these prisoners, trying to de-clutter
This crowded cage from too much resistance.
I write myself to acquittal:
I lend myself to the wind and soar.
The moon would come for me,
Gathering a galaxy on its head.
Author: Tukur Ridwan (He/Him) is a recipient of the Brigitte Poirson Monthly Poetry Prize (March 2018), an author of four poetry chapbooks, a literary editor and reviewer, a mobile photographer, and a graduate of Political Science at UNILORIN, Nigeria. His poems have been longlisted in the Joe Ushie Poetry Prize (2026), featured in art exhibitions by Prince Saheed Adelakun (2024 & 2026), shortlisted in the Bridgitte James Poetry Competition (2025) and the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize (2020). His photograph emerged the best category submission on Foundations by Panterra (2026). His works also appear in various indigenous and international journals and anthologies. He writes from Lagos, Nigeria, and loves black tea, sometimes coffee.
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