in parentheses

Jaachị Anyatọnwụ is a contributor at Poemify Publishers, a literary blog for young African writers. His poems have been published in several print and online publications, including Disquiet Arts, NantyGreens Journal, Afrolit Magazine, ACEworld Magazine, Conscio Magazine, Punt Volat, Poemify Magazine, The Rising Phoenix Review, and African Writers.

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FOR BOYS WHO FIND SOLACE IN STORM

I’m at that age of wishes evolving,
when a lasting sigh takes the form of whispers,
sowed in the patched sod of life throes,
allowed, for a long time, to farrow:
There’s a storm in my head. I seek solace in it.

I’m at that stage of wishes shape-shifting,
to take the form of that bane,
that same bane that ruins and makes a name.
Dare I say I am a martyr who’ll never die?
There’s a storm in my head. I seek solace in it.

I’m at that page of wishes,
where God is neither love nor faith
but a long span of pain, and loss…and gain?
What the next page holds, I dread to know:
There’s a storm in my head. I seek solace in it.

At this age staged on a page of many tales,
where I stand nonchalant on solid mud,
staring at a tomb of me erected 7 miles away,
from perfection, the sweetest fruit, of my induction:
There’s a storm in my head. I seek solace in it.

I am not a zephyr of rhapsodies,
nay! lasting love is graffiti of illusions,
I could bile a pot of sweetness
with the venom of passion, ruthless:
There’s a storm in my head. I seek solace in it.

of gut, gusto, gait, Godspeed.
Still, better is today than the despair of wasted years.
So, with a knowing smile albeit warm,
I shall endure, on broken wings, this flight to better days:
There’s a storm in my head. I found solace in my storm.

Glossary:
Zephyr – (Literary), a soft gentle breeze.
Gusto – enjoyment and enthusiasm in doing something.
Gait – a person’s manner of walking.
Godspeed – an expression of good wishes to a person starting a journey.

diary of a weary messiah

today had, in her kit, many wraps of well-baked troubles with unsettling icings to taste.

you toil all day fixing holes, patching up tears, filling up worn out parts and striving to draw
straight lines over random amoebic dots.

& futility smirks mischievously at failed attempts, while failure smiles maniacally as you
start over, down the road less taken. alone, with a crowd of cacophonous naysaying.

it is overwhelming. but you can’t call for help. messiahs don’t. you’re one. nay?

it’s overwhelming much when you’re surrounded by people who know nothing about your
cross – its rough edges of and back-breaking weight– but daily heap their emotional luggage
on you, then wonder why you fail, falter, fall.

today had, in her kit, many wraps of well-baked troubles with unsettling icings to taste. i ate
to my fill, compulsively. now belch i in dissatisfaction.

faces

a boy looks in the mirror
three faces stare right back at him
he betrays shock and chuckles
the world barely knows that the devil floating down a dusty road
is a sheep in wolf’s clothing whose heart is that of a broken girl

a boy sighs, exhales, furrows his brow
as he examines his masked trinity:
wolf, check. sheep, check. broken girl, check.
all personalities confirmed, he steps into the day, sheep at the front of the counter

harmless, human, angel waiting for wings:
the only face he shows to the world
that earns him fame, accolades
a good name and gets him laid

he lives in a world moved by whatever lures the eye

wait! have you seen a boy’s second face?

have you seen him hate fraternity?
don’t you see how he abhors motherhood?
can you taste the bitter pangs in his voice whenever he speaks of fatherhood?
hell is the native language of his home.
home made him a wolf well versed in beautiful conspiracy,
mutual distrust. sexual abuse. and pity love.

so, he tears down every fibre of familial harmony
loathes the texture of this gospel: ‘home is where the heart is’
here, a boy is homeless and heartless.
doubt you all? ask him why he lacks friends.

yet, a boy has tears.
he twists the arm of gods into sympathy
even when same are drunk in divinity

if you can decrypt the eerie note of a happy talking drum
you’d see the third face of a lost boy
dancing shamelessly in the market square;
you’d see the face he never show to anyone the truest reflection of who he is:
a broken girl whose shards gets the nod of promiscuous phalluses

a boy has many faces
i dare not write of the fourth

find it

FOR BOYS WHOSE BASKET OF HOPE DON’T LEAK

Yesterday came with a rushing wind of unpleasant memories
That have tattooed themselves over scars i couldn’t conceal

Today, i watched the storm– so beautiful yet terrific–
Sweep every trace of yesterday’s sorrows off my memory index.

Not a single speck of dust left behind
Not a tint of tattooed tumultuous timelines.

When finally, tranquillity enthroned herself in the empty throne room of my heart,
Ocean waves, spiced with salt particles, flung themselves at the blue evening
Washing off the remainder of dismally

Soon, very soon, the sky, though cloudless, like a deep dark blue,
Shall resonate like a thousand colours of music

Whilst i stare through the window
At the stars, oblivious of the last
Aware of the present

& like the face of the moon in a shadow,
Not bothered about what tomorrow might bring,
I’ll walk hands akimbo, balancing a basket of hope
On my head.

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