It is the wind that first blows you together in a seashore. you hold her hand just the way she does.
She wants flowers & marigolds from you. but she can’t just locate nights without mornings. you’re in dire of her heart too.
You ask her why she loves roses. you know roses are beautiful like birds of paradise.
Then she smiles like a bud that builds its abode on flowers & tells you your face is also a garden of roses where she finds solace.
You love sitting in a seashore where fireflies gambol. you believe it brings back beautiful memories of love.
She believes your heart is an Eden where she plucks happiness like an apple fruit.
She knows you’re a poet, then she wants your lines to heal her wounds & your stanzas to erase her scars like flood sweeps away the memories we abhor to reminisce.
You put a finger of rain in her heart; her heart becomes Grandiflora flowers being watered by a gardener.
Now, none of you wants to go anymore. you believe nature lives here & chrysanthemums also represent solace. & you’ve found solace here.
DIGGING THE HOLES IN MY BROTHER’S GRAVE
It is the night breeze that wears me down //
like rusted daffodils planted beside a storming sea.
I wear loads of cries in my face
just the way you told me cry is a makeup that represents grief // & sometimes beautifies an ugly face.
because these cries simplify your departure with loneliness // & threnodies.
I like to set flowers ablaze & water them to see them rejuvenate.
just the way I think digging the holes in your grave would educe your carcass // & gist me about the new apartment you’ve rented, & how the landlord treats you & your cotenants.
Imagine birds flying in the sky
with the mindset of surviving cries & pains.
but, // is it true birds don’t cry like humans, but chirp & drone their sadness?
because heaven that binds us together even cries on our roofs.
I am too young to watch the photograph of pains,
// & this destruction is doubting my belief if God truly exits in this realm.
Because in these holes, // I want to espy the bed that comforts you; // the bodyguards that protect you when going for a quorum, & the wife that collects your briefcase then off your jacket, // & serve you cloying vegetable soup.
But if not, I want to build my abode beside your grave,
& feed you with grasses in the morning // then cries at night.
just like my village curate does in remembrance of our Lord Jesus Christ.
About the Author: Olalekan Hussien is a Nigerian writer, a native of Ilorin, Kwara State. He lives in Lagos, where he was born and raised. He has an interest in Literature and his works have appeared or are forthcoming on Pawner’s paper, Terror House, Nantygreens and others.
He’s a student of a Prestigious Arabic/Islamic institution in Lagos State (Darul Falahi).
If he is not perusing the holy Quran and other Islamic books, he’s writing.
A melting pot of profound African literature and Lifestyle.