Bẹẹrẹ
Ayobami Kayode
The heart of the brown roof city—pumping
blood into the veins of Ọjá'ba, clearing hurdles
for Bódìjà to register its face. Torchbearer of
the mystique of Mapo hill. Who says you're only
known for Your infamy; for houses harbouring men
whose eyeballs bear the memories of Kòso, the one
with the eyes of Bitter Kola; for lips that gather the
darkness of hemp; for houses sheltering the lineage
of the hill worshippers; for hands that know how deep
a stranger's pocket is; for Kòbọmọjẹ́ street with its pits
of faeces? No! Aren't you also the one tasked to back
Iba Olúyọ̀lé's legacy— mouth wide open as if to
summon Ìbíkúnlé, Ògúnmọ́lá, a fist raised in the air,
another holding tightly a Dane gun like a birthright
that it is, war-ready as though there's a siege outside
the city, as though a possible invasion looms in the
sky. A ragbag of individuals moving upward and
downward; a student cleric with a bundle of cloth,
heavy as a blacksmith's anvil, tied to his head.
A preacher's robe offering the fragrance of marijuana.
A bus driver basking in the ecstasy of a sachet-gin
between his fingers. Conductors, like a pack of dholes,
whistling at a bleached concoction seller. You who
bring to life, in unison; blaring fuji music, the
angelical choral sound from the ST Paul Anglican
Church, and the adhan from the central mosque,
piercing through the atmosphere. At dusk, you
make a show of drummers who set forth every day in
faded Ankara returning to their abode. Hustle bustle--
quick feet, hands tucked in pockets. Shirtless kids
kidnapping their head-pads and trays in their armpits.
Micra drivers locking horns with rich men's cars. Bike
men activating their flash character—Chaotic noises
trying so hard to tear down the walls of my ears—this
is the time to unleash one's umbrella against the
torrential downpour of curses and insults. In bed,
every night, there's always someone who bites his
lips in regret, upon realizing that in Bẹẹrẹ, his phone has
vanished like fart, into thin air whilst his earphone keeps
caressing his ears with music.
The heart of the brown roof city—pumping
blood into the veins of Ọjá'ba, clearing hurdles
for Bódìjà to register its face. Torchbearer of
the mystique of Mapo hill. Who says you're only
known for Your infamy; for houses harbouring men
whose eyeballs bear the memories of Kòso, the one
with the eyes of Bitter Kola; for lips that gather the
darkness of hemp; for houses sheltering the lineage
of the hill worshippers; for hands that know how deep
a stranger's pocket is; for Kòbọmọjẹ́ street with its pits
of faeces? No! Aren't you also the one tasked to back
Iba Olúyọ̀lé's legacy— mouth wide open as if to
summon Ìbíkúnlé, Ògúnmọ́lá, a fist raised in the air,
another holding tightly a Dane gun like a birthright
that it is, war-ready as though there's a siege outside
the city, as though a possible invasion looms in the
sky. A ragbag of individuals moving upward and
downward; a student cleric with a bundle of cloth,
heavy as a blacksmith's anvil, tied to his head.
A preacher's robe offering the fragrance of marijuana.
A bus driver basking in the ecstasy of a sachet-gin
between his fingers. Conductors, like a pack of dholes,
whistling at a bleached concoction seller. You who
bring to life, in unison; blaring fuji music, the
angelical choral sound from the ST Paul Anglican
Church, and the adhan from the central mosque,
piercing through the atmosphere. At dusk, you
make a show of drummers who set forth every day in
faded Ankara returning to their abode. Hustle bustle--
quick feet, hands tucked in pockets. Shirtless kids
kidnapping their head-pads and trays in their armpits.
Micra drivers locking horns with rich men's cars. Bike
men activating their flash character—Chaotic noises
trying so hard to tear down the walls of my ears—this
is the time to unleash one's umbrella against the
torrential downpour of curses and insults. In bed,
every night, there's always someone who bites his
lips in regret, upon realizing that in Bẹẹrẹ, his phone has
vanished like fart, into thin air whilst his earphone keeps
caressing his ears with music.
Kayode is an African literature enthusiast, interested in Academics and Yorùbá translation. His works have been published or forthcoming in konya shamsrumi, echelon, icefloepress, Olongo, Àtẹ́lẹwọ́, New note, isele, fieryscribe, Kalahari, Ake review, South Florida and elsewhere. He tweets @KayodeAyobamii
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