The clouds have gathered, and there is soon to be an outpouring.
There has been some drizzling, yes, some weighty showers yes, but the rain is yet to fall.
Our black clothes are ready.
I think that we never took them off.
They're beneath our stiff collars and beaded dresses.
We have stopped hiring mourners to sing at our funerals: we have become masters of the dirge.
Black days used to be far and in between,
Black days were the stories we told about people who wanted to be free and were denied their freedom.
Black days were strange to some and as familiar as air to others.
Our favorite clothes are black.
They match the despair of creaking crosses overhanging the pews.
Our black dresses match the black beneath the feet of the ones who will never see their families again.
Our black dresses are luxurious, shining like the shorn locks that now grace a green carpet.
Black days have always been: our ignorance veiled them as gray clouds in a blue sky.
Black days from Kano to the years of 67-70, to Leah to Nyanya to Lekki to Sokoto to Ondo.
Black days that were never planned for, springing on us like the joyous sun after heavy rain.
Black days.
They have come again
And scarcely are we prepared for them.
I do not like to write sad poems.
I do not like to write sad poems.
❤️✨🌴
Photo by Frank Cone on Pexels.
No comments:
Post a Comment