Mourning

 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
you requested.

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.

this day,
we prayed for miracle
silently,
clouding our grief

waiting
for the certificate,

for Domo.

LIVING

& what is living
head begging for a takeout
legs insisting on a marathon

the surge of standing outside puddle,
holding up between sand
and sky.

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
of uneasiness
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