A dystopian fuzz sprinkles
an enticing scent, the kind that
makes bedlam almost palatable.
But still we sing, march, hoping
that the fog clears. We put iron on
iron – asking for signs of a
metallurgical paradise, where thespians
become rulers, and rulers learn to dance
to forewarning clangs.
Black earth. White hands. Borrowed voices.
In this oval shaped womb, specks of intertwined
joy and pain jostle for influence, struggle for
Ògún’s splintered attention. Black earth, white
hands… which to choose from?
But in borrowed voices
they claim to be their own liberator, their
own airbags against torrents of shellacking.
Were Ògún not on a roving sabbatical,
sourcing for the right alchemy, would he
have been on the side of the subalterns? Would he
have sabotaged the efficacy of the oppressor’s
Iron rods shall metastasis into potent pens, blood
into gushing black inks, stale air into guttural,
fearless voices that we can call ours … and our
backs shall be reversed to face with full-force
the pretend might of those that misappropriate
If Ògún were here, he’d have no choice but
to pick a side.