The Night, the Dark, and Bats, 1952

	Arthur who decides not to tell his children or grandchild about the heart condition that’s going to end him soon enough, comes over in the evening to find Henry staring up into the eaves outside his parents’ house. It’s a cool evening in mid-May, the whole world waking up with that spring smell of a million things blooming, and it would be hopeful if there were hope left for Arthur. “What’s up Henry?”

	Henry points up at the roof. “I think something just flew up into there.”
	The sun has just gone down. “This time of night,” Arthur says, “it’s probably a bat. Most of the birds would be nesting now, and wouldn’t go up there anyway.”

	“You mean, you think we have bats living in our house?” The idea lying in the boy’s voice sounds magical. This is a boy who begs to be taken to horror movies and reads comic books. Maybe he’s thinking about Dracula.
	Arthur goes into his son’s garage where he knows there is a flash light. Ever since the diagnosis last week, Arthur keeps imagining little pains in his chest. He hopes he’s imagining them anyway. Back under the eaves, Arthur shines a light up and sure enough, there’s one bat hanging there by itself. “That’s good,” he tells Arthur.
	“Why?”
	“A bat by himself is probably just resting before he does more hunting or before he goes back to his colony. I was worried your parents were going to have to deal with a big group of them.”
	“They live in colonies?”
	“They hang together in gigantic clumps touching each other. I was in an old mineshaft one time and crawled right under hundreds of them.”
	“Why were you in a mineshaft?”
	“It was a gold mine out west that had closed down years before. My friends and I were just exploring it.”
	He’s flipped the light off, but he hears the little boy’s gasp, the wonder that fills it. “Could you take me?”

	“Ah,” Arthur says, his own kind of gasp because words cannot fill the reasons this will never be possible, and his unword is followed by a kind of infinity of regret and anger that’s focused on nothing really except maybe the universe.
	“Come on grandpa. If Mom and Dad say it’s okay, can we go?”
	The truth is that he has enough energy to take the boy. His only worry is that he’ll leave the boy stranded in the middle of the woods or down a cave. He has carbide lamps and rope and all the rest of his old equipment. The only thing holding him back is death.

	“I tell you what. If your father goes with us, then I’ll take you.” He can feel the unquiet of the boy’s silence as he looks over the field to see the fireflies winking on. “What’s wrong?”
	“Dad’s always working.”
	It’s true. He has the hardware store to manage and the concerns of an adult. He works too hard during the day and drinks too much at night. Still, Arthur says, “We’ll schedule a vacation. You and I will plan it, and he’ll get some time off.”
	The boy’s breathing turns hopeful, and Arthur sends him in to start talking to his father about it. Arthur stays outside for the sake of the fireflies.

	And so, Arthur probably won’t be around in the late summer, but he’ll fill some hours with Henry planning and mapping and explaining how and where to enter the earth gracefully, without fear or danger. He hopes there is a heaven, but he doesn’t think there is. He’d love to watch the two of them on their journeys. He’d love to watch Henry learn to understand the night, the dark, and bats.

My Falsified Report Card

I have always been reluctant toward education, especially what is taught in the classroom. Though my mother was teacher, I had always had some phobia towards learning. I would prefer to stay at home rather than go to school. My parents would have to drag me! Going to school from Mondays to Fridays has always been a nightmare. The good times I enjoy were usually the weekends and holidays.

As a consequence, I was not sound academically: always at the bottom of the performance pile. During examinations, I was usually faced with uncertainties. Reading and understanding were my pertinent problems, despite having stand-by lesson teachers to take me on all subjects at home, as soon as I was done with school. In all of those, however, I was always happy when I was through with tests and examinations and looked forward to the subsequent holidays.

My parents were particularly concerned about my academic performance. Playful I was, I turn deaf ears to their words of advice. They were indeed a busy people. My father was an engineer who had to work almost half a day and retired home late at nights. My mother worked hard to support the family through teaching in various classrooms and offering extra lessons to add to her income.

From my first year at elementary school to my fourth year, my results were all in the negative. My mother expressed her frustration on me as I came home with bad academic results every term. It got so worse to the point I was being scolded through the weapon of the whip. It became the ‘new normal’ I had to face every term of academic session  I came home with the ‘usual academic result’

My teachers were concerned. My mathematics, English and social studies teachers offered extra times to painstakingly teach me on a one-on-one basis. Yet, all their efforts prove abortive. I was left on my own. In fact, my parents got fed up and consequently gave up on me! They fired all of my lesson teachers. I was left at the mercy of several house-helps: paid home helpers whose responsibility centered on taking care of the home, my three younger siblings and me.

Between the years 1990-1995, my elementary school years were seriously boring times. I got tired of receiving the usual bad results every term (four months) and seeing my parents getting upset. Through the help of a friend, Olumide Coker, I was able to do the ‘unthinkable.’ I was at my fourth year at elementary school (Yewande Memorial School, to be precise) when the ugly incident happened. Olumide came to my house with a Tipex Ink-what was used to make alterations to figures as shown in the Report Card-a document that validates the performance of pupils. Together, we changed every score and percentage in it! The scores and percentages showed  an unusual' excellency of my result'. My report card! I felt good and thought my parents would be happy seeing the bad results ‘changed’ to good! I never knew I was in for a shocker!

When I showed my parents my report card, they knew it was obviously sketchy. My mother asked, 'Are you sure this is your report card?' Afraid I was, 'Yes, it is' was my reply. Later that day, 'Your report card looks funny. I will call the attention of your head teacher the next session. Are you sure this your report card?' were my dad's words. 'That's my result' I answered, feeling guilty. 

The early part next session saw my dad brought the attention of my head teacher at my fourth year of elementary school. Then, I just got promoted to the next class-the fifth year of elementary school. It was there the truth had to be unearthed. I altered my report card! After much interrogations, I bowed to the pressure mounted on me. 

I was not only humiliated in the presence of my parents but also the entire classes and levels  of my school. I felt the ground opened up and swallow me completely! My fellow pupils in class, seniors and juniors made spectacle of me throughout that day and for several months . It took me time to get over the consequence of my action. It was a day I live to remember.

Looking back to that ordeal, I can't help but assert 'it's a thing of the past'.

His Fairytale Wedding 

Rome wasn’t into Shakespeare. He studied English for the sole thrill of contemporary post-modern theory; his forte was apocalyptic endings  and zombie slaying. Post modern theory delved into the whole psyche of the nightmare behind the phantom. He could relate to the whole neglected inner child for a while until he found his true calling; he became an EMT. He saved lives. He breathed life into the defibrillator when a cardiac went into remission; his heart regained a natural rhythm at the tips of his fingers. 

Rome found Julie that way. She was beautiful behind pale features and charcoal dark hair. She penciled her eyes in black and wore a corset. The woman behind the mascara and the exquisite red lips flatlined. He could not feel a pulse. He put the oxygen to her moist lips and shocked her heart. Her mother stood near by… 

“She’s using that stuff again.” She said with a face as morose as a renaissance portrait. 

Julie coughed. Her voice returned to her almost dead ambition: She used crystal meth to get high off toxins. She said she used to get by; to get off other things that were displeasing like abusive fathers and mothers. 

Rome didn’t leave her side in the hospital. He was off the clock and stood by her side; she melted like chocolate to a candle stick when she saw him. Rome was muscular, tan, cut and reminded her of a golden bronze statue. A real Roman God. 

“We almost lost you.” He said aside a mother who cried.

“I’m sorry darling.” Her mother Marietta said, “I’m sorry for all we’ve done to you.”

“She used to hit the pipe.” Julie confided to Rome. 

They left the hospital together holding hands and the horizon was like a pink cloud against a purple sky. Around Julie the earth was incandescent like walking among the clouds. 

He finally told her, “I used heroin.” He was sincere. 

“How did you get off?”

“He found me dead. Like I found you.”

“Who?” 

“My father.” 

Rome was from a dirty and sinister past of users.

“It runs in the family. My uncle was a user.”

They had their entire life in common. 

Beneath the early dawn of a rising sun they walked into another horizon of indigo and fuchsia. 

That was when they were becoming golden like emanating something celestial within the light.  

He said his farewell to her and explained, “if our lives were a fairytale I wouldn’t need to convince you that you needed saving…”

His words became a silence like a truce - she then knew it was her - it was she who needed to save herself. 

All he could do was point the way and she knew; she kissed him and entered the golden gates of recovery where she found herself a therapist and a bit of candy like licorice to take the edge off. 

Together again, they fantasized, consummating in marriage beneath the turquoise sun and rain that fell like lemons.

GOD’S LOVING EMBRACE 

 

Lights come through the stained-glass windows to give warmth. 

Kneeling at the altar with prayers in my heart speaking to you.  

A closeness, only your loving embrace can comfort me. 

 

Moments of distress, your begotten son Jesus embraces me.  

His loving heart gives me a sense of redemption for my soul.  

Time after time when there has been a flood of sorrow came. 

 

Always, have my soul asked to be united to you through time.  

You have heard my prayers throughout my life and have answered.  

Through Jesus my savior speaks to a waiting soul for a life of eternity  

Breathing

hear me: we do not immerse our pages
with words because our hearts are swelling
with grief, sometimes, or floating with joy.
we do so because these poems want to breathe;
they want to live their own lives.

here in my country, it’s the season of harmmatan
the cotton tree in our garden breaks open its pod
we gather the seeds & the snow-like wool into basins
the papaya tree close-by ripens with the wind & sunlight
other trees shed their leaves & dryness is the new culture
the ground is with littered leaves & they sing under our soles.

we are all seeking to breath, even in warmth,
in cold, when our skins are pierced with the lune of chill 
our bodies immerse longer under our duvet.
we are still breathing, everything wants to breathe
this poem is not about misery, bliss or nostalgia;
it is about you, it is about [the] poem--- breathing.


Conversation

because i am kneeling down between the pew
sifting my thoughts on what i should have confessed
i wanted to cast the pitcher deep into my heart &
draw out every word from its place 
i wanted to purge; to fetch out the darkness beneath
to the rays radiating from the sanctuary.

because my heart is full & bubbling with water
i wanted to break a part of me & leak
i wanted to flood everywhere until i’m lean.
i shudder like one met by the steering of a dagger
i shriek like one almost eaten by his foes
i gather words into groan & my lips began to bleed.

because i am cut open by the laser of truth &
all i know about myself gushes out
i break open to all who care to listen
god above or the other worshippers
staring down at me from across their benches.

Ojo Olumide Emmanuel is a Nigerian Poet and Book Editor. He is the author of the Poetry Chapbook “Supplication For Years in Sands” (Polarsphere Books, 2021). His works have appeared and forthcoming at Ake Review, Feral, Quills, Poemify, Melbourne-Culture, TNR and elsewhere. He is the Editor-in-Chief of The Nigerian Review (TNR).He currently curates the monthly Wakasoprize for Poetry and Abubakar Gimba Prize for Short Fiction. He is a fellow of the SprinNG Writers Fellowship. Say hi to him on Twitter @OjoOlumideEmma2

Sirens

When the branch snaps I feel it in my head
dry an orange gorge up licking air from blue
eyes my feet score sleep tones from bird alarms
the minute earth turns over the rock I’m clinging on

The underside of my day drones green deep in
gnash safe breathing the ties I’m on the wheel
against singing flames crush on black wood
cat on the deck snorts upcoming traffic hills

There’s no thrill to balk at in crumpled-up sun
slices tops of trees of grin juiced by my own blood
for the bugs mist down the middle difference between 
my gut and its cousin full with disappearance on the lawn

Your depth horns reed pages into stitched skin
the branch I’m on means holding it to my bones



A pox

In the pinched morning hours thoughts have teeth
that hound with heat blossoms on his gray skin
swallow the creak of a half-broken fan
turning air over to watch what crawls beneath

He rewinds his gaze to savor his salvation
vacated sky streaked with blue boils over
green that clouds the streams with sharp hair
half scalped and left behind to gum the ignition

He’s not going anywhere, at home with tight sighs
breathing in the memory of cleaner Springs
coiled, turning over, saved for the usual fangs
where he bleeds the lake of everything that dies

There’s a sun rolling over calculated hills
There are blankets to cover up what kills



Your hymnal

On her wedding day a white dress full of ashes
blows down an aisle lined with sawdust pews
The music silences everyone and is itself mute

Empty churches possess a psychology
that only the dead can read
This is one way I won’t exist
This is a picture of me, silent dust

another way to save her
They say when he was young he was so thin
they feared the wind would blow him away

and it did, after they’d rubbed him smooth
Empty hymns press a threnody
into my hands, describing how the water whispers

how the boat mutters as it launches in the dark


The goddess of love

With late Spring in my nose the sun through sawtooth leaves
in a chain linked with birds an ivy steps over my open mouth
hums blunt lust of toads when I brush your nipples with cum
to the pond to silence lillies to leave light stains on the surface
popping errors off on trees with latent rise your warm is skin
to my pit in which chills wound an implied gust of wishes

Witchcraft in my noise the stun you thought on me for loaves
over my open mouth talks to mulch you to cover me in chains
runs front of most blood you draw across my thought to strum
along with broke clouds my moving very fast upon culled dust
loping rubs boots to be a parent to the rocks live on us meal
widens as your wise arms siphon freckled with stuffed eyes

Your rain bows only for the planet turns
intravenous sunshine is a goddess of love

Sex

I’m you