By Amina Akinola
for R, in memory of Domo
A few hours later, you were trying to rebuke grief. You smiled, leg-working, lori iro
to the rhythm of Asake’s Joha
from the unbothered neighbouring woofer.
you selected her dress
one after other—fondly
you gazed, like a body under microscope
in what should we give her—away
the pink gown for her ballet class?
or a red for her fifth birthday?
in what is best to chew the dust
of the tomb?
walking in from the back door
with tiring eyes, mama
again—opened the carton
blood of Jesus! she lets out.
this day, I know no one can predict the shape of the room they will live long
not when you are unsure of pleasure
or what colour it is.
we prayed for miracle
clouding our grief
for the certificate,
& what is living
head begging for a takeout
legs insisting on a marathon
the surge of standing outside puddle,
holding up between sand
i have walked too,
nothing took after joy on the route.
body, a portrait of wild explorations.
i am here, afloat,
ọmọ ọpẹ́ on God
people who longed for assurance had drowned.
& at the mention of the world’s weight, everyone is committed to grams
yet we dream big—wild
who will carry your dreams
when you are done—racing,
and hire them?
today, I let myself down slowly—
without a prep.
there is nothing in life but time
& inside the cloud, i want to be a body
sweet and clear.
sometimes you don’t wait to be convinced
by fatigue, you can be all—tender
before your body takes back its weight. E
Amina Akinola is a product developer student at Google. She is a member of the Hilltop Creative Art Foundation.