Tiny Rods
After Jumoke Verrisimo 

Rain wraps eager souls in a damp embrace,
quells the perturbing mind and shuts weary eyelids close.

Rain calls to the pictures behind shut lids
& wipes them off like cleaning swipes.

Rain whispers loudly salvation songs;
“a mouth must muse melodies of fortune.”

Rain summons me to a realm where my limbs can imitate his-
insistent ardour, like a drummer’s fingers tickling over *gbedu.

Rain calls upon the east and asks the west to sit still,
forces me to repose though any boisterous force.

Whether here and there it pulls, whether piercing into a scream,
rain nudges on my heart a salvation song.

Yea, if I tilt my face to the raptures of splattering rain, 
each drop will come to me hastily as tiny wise bulbs. 

* A percussion instrument traditionally used in ceremonial Yoruba music in Nigeria.





#Memory is how What is Left Unsaid is Said

we stepped forward but 
twice you reclined & we faded
like a passing wave/ 
like two ends of a scarlet, now-
clothesline apart. 

#I remember the way you smiled in my face; 
how creamy bulbs of pictures held the day in them, 
in you, I saw a me I didn't know &
this was the first evening I knew you were a beautiful…

did you say we shouldn't be strangers? But
 we can never be 'knowers' either/ maybe 
our memories are too seeped 
in red/ each film vivid still/ 
even as one, two, three, we count in many…

#I remember the warmth of you beside me, 
the scents and sweat after each race with a ruby rubber roll, 
I wished I could press my head on your taut back, 
this was the first evening I knew you were a pleasant…

I have you hinged on my memory's (ies) hints/ 
you have written your name with ruby ink/ 
on the face of time/ like 
a tombstone/ 
here lies the adoration that never was/ 
should the moon forget to smile/ another show of broken bravado I despise…

#I remember the letter that had your heart, 
each word kneaded by the same reason for 
a girl to jump at night,
 & a blazing fire that lit throes of passion,
 this was the first evening I knew you were a love…

even this night/ there is no peace that comes with it
you are a dark ink splattered on the sky/ my sky/ 
you are the sound of grief/ the tune of pain from a fluter’s flute/ 
you are a vicious remedy; a painful cure to all joy/ 
this flowing sea can see…

#I remember the times you owned me as a writer owns his thoughts,
you wrote the world to a stop, asked it to bow at your pen,
 tradition is but a worship of the dead, 
this was the first evening I knew you were a happy…

you said we shouldn't be strangers/ when time 
sojourns against us/ but haven't you said our love 
hangs on the sky; a star unreachable &
that your heart is a coin?
I can never be the head nor the tail/ & I will never…

again, the night you broke the mirror-
it was at midnight, the sun was sorely in slumber
the birds- corpses of the night 
& the stars cheered in silence 
you became my silent song & I became a distant merry rhyme. 
this was the first time I knew you were a painful…

a lover isn't buried too soon in the hades of memories/ 
this heart cannot call you a stranger/ but 
when my lips seek to muster the memories of passions had/ 
you cease from being a friend/ because 
my heart may turn into a racing car/ & my belly- a blooming garden/ 
even if I tried.

 these creamy bulbs must now close
 the warmth must be put off
 the words must be rubbed out
 the songs must embrace stilled lips
 this is the story of you 
and I- who are 
neither lovers
 nor strangers
 nor friends
 nor foes…

Damilola Oyedeji (Ariella) is an educationist, a creative writer, and an advocate for self-discovery and inclusion. As a poet, she has learned to navigate life through hope’s compass. This is evident in the thematic focus of her works. She is currently a fellow of the SprinNG Writing Fellowship.