The will of the gods must not be disputed
Is the poison we kiss into each other’s throats
As we eagerly blindfold one another from the sensual
Tender slaughter of our sisters
We sift for the gods’ mercy in the waterfall of blood and tears that baptize our skies
The gods are puppets
In the servitude of the wretched
The defiled corpses of our children make love with virgin rivers,
Wash up on foreign lands where their souls still wander
Their screams are buried curses waiting
We carve out scars on our abused flesh
A desperate attempt to claw out a redemption from our weakened bones
A lamentation, a prayer
We drink the sun of the damned,
Summoning a cleansing that only
Burning will suffice.
Aishat Yahkub is a Nigerian writer, poet, bookworm and environmentalist. She loves crafting stories that evoke emotions through her cast of outcasts and misfits, and delights in the macabre, bizarre and weird. She has her first published poem, “Children of the wind” on Brittle paper.
She studies medicine at the Abubakar Tafawa Balewa University, Bauchi, and hails from Kwara state, Nigeria.