Olukemi Omoyeni

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Olukemi Omoyeni
Saturday 1 May 2021

Dying declarations

Mahalia, she muttered as I retard,

She's plagued with an epidemic.

Though in the struggle to give another soul,

Another soul into the turbulence of the land of colour,

Mahalia, she muttered repeatedly,

The gods would think I am the one dying,

As she screamed with the remnant of her zest.

In law, dying declarations is stating the cause of death.

Mahalia, tell my newborn the cause of my death,

That the land of colour soothed me not,

Nor reserved so much for her coming generation.

Tell her about the colony of tender blood,

Where a million lives were jeopardized,

And some lost forever,

In the quest for language sovereignty.

A language not yours not mine,

A language of memories,

A language that speaks suppression

A language that should speak the old memories of slavery,

Is the crown prince in the colony of tender blood.

They'd spill the blood of their future 

They'd lay down anything to sustain this disgust.

Tell her mahalia,

Tell her about the colony of missiles,

That I smell and see metals,

Lethal metals of self destruct,

The missile base of poverty, and a life too costly.

It comes with no recompense that the metals are here,

The shepherd is fed, the field is no longer the sheep's. 

Tell her of the madibawasu colony

Slayer of his own blood,

Despiser of his own brothers.

He'd kiss the feet of the new vanilla than honour his own kind.

The hadassah of vanilla oozes sweetness,

But the madibawasu vanilla oozes torture,

It reeks of blood,

the rings on our noses,

The the blood in the Atlantic,

The skull of scores,

Scores of our brothers and sisters.

Madibawasu will lick the horn and feet of this vanilla,

In reproachful exchange for the blood of his kins.

Tell her about the colony of the niggers

Where the strength of a giant is bought 

For just a shekel of silver.

The once ravishing peaceful sea of oil mahalia,

Has become the river of flowing bloods.

Bloods and sweat,

Sweats of duress, and invincible writhe,

From the follicles of many skins,

The skins bearing the mark of  the thumbscrew.

From the gushing sound of boiling blood 

A gush of hate and resentment from her yobs,

Of resentment and betrayal,

Of mismanaged funds and underutilised potentials.

The gush of different bloods, blue bloods, bad bloods, red bloods and plasma.

My grand mother never again sings of the land of colour,

But you will sing it to Kumini my newborn

In a different tune,

A tune that will tug her heartstrings,

A tune to return the land of colour

To nature and the beauty of several colours,

A tune that takes recompense for every march of juntas,

Of emissions and deposits to the horizons.

Kumini will learn to hug her brothers,

And not despise her sisters,

But the traitors, slayers of brothers, she shall not save.

Mahalia, I endear you, 

Tell Kumini that the many deficits of the  colonies

Transited me into the world of knowledge

I didn't die of her birth nor breed,

The colonies killed me.




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