Too used to being warm,

Forgot how to be cold.

Too used to being free,

Forgot how to be sold.

Too used to being rich,

Forgot how to be poor.

Too used to being love,

Forgot how to be hate.

Too used to being outspoken,

Forgot how to be quiet.

Too used to being satisfied,

Forgot how to be needy.

Too used to being strong,

Forgot how to be weak.

Too used to being me,

Forgot how to be you.

December is always the coldest and driest month of the year in Nigeria, due to the parching dust bearing land-wind called harmattan. In some other part of the world, December is seen as a period of snows falling and a period to create snowballs or a period to shovel the snows from the road, but here in Nigeria, December is a period for lips to crack and for skins to turn white like they had been bathed with bags of cements. Snows do not fall here making our Christmas a snowless celebration. Instead the whole of the country is covered with mist especially in early mornings. Mist spreads all over the earth like smokes hanging on the sky and this makes it difficult to see what’s happening ahead. Everywhere looks dull as dust coats the whole of the earth making everywhere look dirty (but it’s not necessarily dirty). Even flowers lose their beauty because of the dust. In harmattan season, people wear socks on their feet to prevent it from getting dusty. Dust is a major feature of harmattan. Christmas is always celebrated in December so due to all these, Christmas is often dry, cold and dusty. Despite all these features, I love harmattan for I feel it contributes in making Christmas very unique.

To me, December is a time to rest. It’s a time to fall back and relax from the stress of the past eleven months. It’s a season for countless celebrations by various organizations. Many social gatherings throw parties on December to bade the year good bye forever (be it a good year or a bad year). It’s a period of eating and drinking, and a period of so many visitations from families and friends. Maybe, it’s for this reason, people become lazy, even the sun rises late, like it’s been forced out and the moon shine dully in the night, like it’s tired and weary. Sometimes, the moon refuses to shine. At night, the sky looks like it’s weaved up by threads of dust. It becomes grayish and devoid of stars. This makes me think, the heavenly bodies are planning to go on vacation for the holiday (maybe travel) since December is a period of traveling here in Nigeria. I guess it’s a period of traveling because it’s the last month of the year. Many families return back to their states to spend the Christmas holiday with their families and relatives. My family not exempted. We have also decided to travel to Anambra, the state I’m from, to spend the Christmas holiday.

In anticipation to the traveling, my mum and I went to a boutique to shop for new clothes. It’s very essential to shop for clothes on this festive season because traders export the best of clothing materials during this period. December clothings are very unique and of high quality, that’s why it’s a tradition here to get new clothes often tagged as Christmas clothes and to get petroleum jelly named Vaseline to apply on the skin, to make the skin less dry and rough. We also apply Vaseline on our lips to protect it from cracking. Even our hairs become dry and strong like sponges. Petroleum jellies and hair creams are very essential for Christmas celebration or else the dryness will make you very uncomfortable.

As I tagged along the back of my mother in the boutique, I stared at the hustle and bustle of the marketplace through the window. The market place is often crowded as people troop in and out to purchase foodstuffs, clothing materials and fowls (oh yeah! Fowls. Christmas season is the time to slaughter animals especially fowls to prepare delicious meals for Christmas).

I smiled within myself while watching people purchase various items for Christmas. Christmas this year is gonna be wonderful, I thought. I was already drafting out things I’d like to do this Christmas with my family. I had arranged various movies to watch and gifts to give to my friends and relatives but then, something tragic and unexpected happened shattering all my plans and expectations. One morning, during our normal morning devotion, my father got a call from a relative. He bowed his head the moment the call went off. We were confused and wondered what it was that made him react that way. He stared at my mum and shook his head. He then broke the news and that was how we got to hear about the shocking news of my uncle’s death. My uncle, which was my mum’s younger brother, had been a victim of cancer for three years now. He had been admitted to a hospital at India thrice for various operations and he had been responding to treatment. There was a time he and his wife came to visit our family, he looked very strong and healthy. He was even fatter and we were all glad to see that he was getting along well. Everyone thought he was going to make it out of the sickness for he was a strong man and above all, he had immense faith in God. Unfortunately for us all, he gave up the ghost and surrendered into the cold hands of the unsatisfied death.

At first, it felt like a dream, a movie, something unreal. I couldn’t believe it. I thought if I slept and woke up, everything would fall back in place and it would be a nightmare but I’ve been sleeping and waking up to the bitter truth that he’s gone forever. The reality of his death keeps dawning on me each day. I still can’t accept his death. I expected him to live longer.

My uncle (my Santa Claus), chose to leave us on December, a period of celebration, to an unknown land. I call him my Santa Claus become every Christmas, he always dress in a Santa Claus attire (red cap upon red attire, a fake white beard, a ball hidden under his shirt to make his belly protrude). He would dance around just to make us laugh. He loved children but never got the opportunity to have one to call his. His wife had once took in but lost the child in a miscarriage. Those who saw him before his passing away talked about the lingering pain in his eyes and unspoken words in his silence while laying on the hospital bed fighting for life.

I don’t know what my uncle expects of us now. I don’t know who he wants to decorate the christmas tree now that he’s gone or who he wants us to call father christmas. I can still remember how he sang some christmas songs for me and my brothers last Christmas. I guess we’d be singing an elegy for him in return The gay and mirthful season of Christmas has become so gloomy and moody in my house because of his death. My father has called off the traveling, so I’m stuck here at home wondering how my Christmas will be. Will it be joyous and fun like every other Christmas? Or will it be mournful with lips humming an elegy? I’m yet to find out.

I have not once had a gun look me in the eye,

nor a knife’s pointed edge bite me in the side,

no black eyes and fat lips from swings taken twice,

no bruises and burn marks from abusers on high,

no broken glass bottles have shattered over me,

from scourges and razors my life has been free,

gas chambers and laws that seek to kill me...

True, bombings and shootings all around me,

but I have not yet had to hide or to flee

my parents are married, no siblings in jail,

no break-ups, no tickets, no classes I’ve failed,

emotional stresses have come, but have passed,

and even those that linger will not always last.

You mock and deride my so-called suffering

to mask the self-cornering accusation inside

that tells you that your pain is not your identity

and it is only in fear that you hold it so closely

lest you have to recognize that no matter the size

…suffering is suffering...

And so you simply say it cannot compare

to what you and others have had to and still have to bear.

You tell me that my pain is not real,

that my heart has never felt the flesh-tearing steel

of being hated and lied to and misunderstood,

being followed by darkness, mistaking evil for good

taking refuge in empty thoughts and in tears

and comforts which come in the form of despair,

that having been loved I never could know

the feeling of being unloved, always brought low

without hope of change, without choice or chance

my dignity shattered, pierced by a lance,

classmates and acquaintances killed by themselves--

the count keeps on: more than years that I’ve lived,

and all of my losses are counted as few

no matter the time, place, or way they accrue,

the agony of separation, the shadow of oppression,

my life lived in bubbles freed for expression,

questions that rumble around in my head,

not to be answered, to fill me with dread,

and every last day of my life on this earth

lay riddled with fear by a dead and cold hearth,

the weight and the wear of generations before

that haunt me and dead-bolt the lock on the door

of my heart and my soul and all that I know

until only they choose the way that I go,

the gasping and grasping and squeezing pain

of opening my scars to love once again,

even though this time I’m sure how it ends

for death comes to all, be they stranger or friend,

then the chaos, confusion awake in my mind,

drowning myself in senses and noise lest I find

that barren and broken a wasteland inside

I wake without purpose, I walk without stride,

my soul’s calling and wailing and screaming ignored

because who can answer except in accord?

as damaged and hoodwinked and turned around

lost without notion nor hope of one day being found,

and still looked upon without being seen,

by those who encourage without caring for me,

no hint of compassion, only a moment of pity

or, worse yet, indifference marked by praise of uniquity,

theirs passing thoughts that never return

while mine seem forever to wheel and churn,

wonderful teachers, abandoning each child

pushing them through with smiles and guile,

where the humanity, where right from wrong?

No, toss it all out for the tolerance song

which beats to a drum of not once being loved

only looked on a moment than discarded as dust

when existence becomes a burden to the “us”,

lest questions and chaos still swirl in our souls

but psych-this-or-another will deal with it all

explain it away or deny there’s a problem

and then I am back again, still beaten and broken

but pretending that wounds and scars and pain

can only be suffered from external strain

emotional or physical, though the issue extends

not body nor mind, the death-grip transcends

but who can relieve it

when no one believes it?

And so you tell me, again and again

my pain is not real, my heart doesn’t rend

itself over and over and over again...

“Those who have suffered want only one thing before they can take the first step toward healing: for their suffering to be recognized as suffering,

whatever form it may come in. To disregard or devalue what they have endured is to steal from them the hope and chance of salvation by denying that they ever needed it in the first place.”

...

.

.

.

(Sorry for the repeat--for some reason "delete" looked like "edit" to me...obviously I wasn't paying attention. This has gone through a lot of changes because it was written as slam poetry and I keep deciding I'm not satisfied with it. Let me know if anyone has title suggestions--all of my ideas have fallen short.)

For those who don't know what slam poetry is, it is a type of spoken-word poem that is meant to be performed/recited. It is often performed rather quickly, is emotionally charged, and follows a heavy topic. Some people say that the monologues of Shakespeare performed onstage are OG slam poetry.

You squeeze your eyes shut. The color of you see is almost black. As you relax your eyes and let in more light, the color lightens to magenta, then a dark, warm red. You hear the sound of creaking metal as you swing backward and tuck your striped leggings underneath the plastic seat. The calluses on your hands protect you from blisters as you grasp the metal chains holding you up, but they don't stop the chains from pinching you. Ouch! You grab another bit of the chain, one with smooth plastic on it. Your eyes are still shut, but you can see the red is changing to orange. As the swing reverses direction, you throw your legs out in front of you and lean back, letting your hair brush the tickling grass and hairy poppy plant behind you. A giggle escapes your chest. You lean further back and smile toothily, let the whole world around you see the big gap where your front tooth used to be. Orange changes to yellow, than yellowish green. The swing keeps going forward, back, creak, forward, back, creak... as you continue to pump your legs, going higher and higher. You could be an astronaut and be flying past the moon now. Or you could be a bird and have feathery wings to take you to the sky. You let your eyes open a little more and you can see the tiniest ray of sunlight, turned skinny and long like a needle. You look away from the sun because you remember that it hurts to look at it fully. Plus, your sister told somebody was blinded, and you don't want that to happen. Instead you let your eyes see the azure sky, an ocean with no waves or ships, a portal to outer space. The atmosphere. Ten thousand feet up there is a white stripe and an airplane, and if the people flying to Seattle looked just right, they would see you, a little dot swinging far down below near a little toy house that's too small to even play with. The sky is just so blue in summer.

As always when in the initial throes

of writing what I strive to concoct viz

pièce de ré·sis·tance,

which grandiose whim fizz

hills with utter futility, nonetheless this

nondescript husband under

scores comment, while pulling his

grizzled hair of chinny chin chin,

and emphasizing that mine

literary effort ain't no whiz,

whether expressing an insatiable hunger

for factual national world events,

weird news i.e. geico liz

heard eats dog,

(who swallowed homework) quiz

sic hull varying from opinion/editorial,

geopolitical related or showbiz,

but breathe deep, while setting loose

quiet riot of ideas,

which profuse accursed

process usually incorporates an overwhelming

growing exponentially cerebral burst

whereat impossible task

looms large, asper how to

zero on most agreeable needling

threadbare notion to come first

amidst the plethora of rampant analogous

to horde of infants

clamoring tubby nursed

bajillion ideas touting joyfulness

(re: l'chaim), or...mine

envisioned sorrowfully immersed

demise as select small group

of family and friends accompany

glassy transparent hearst

(which...shh... keep on the Q.T.

as figuratively utter by pursed

lips), of course no corps

(habeas corpus cited for no reason),

but liver worst

poisoning wrought unexpected demise,

AND cremation (in a free nation)

means body double

coffin before your eyes

doppelganger paid in blood

money and french fries

(duet to a solo salt craving) no lies,

hence an none nee moose

penniless chap dies

in short shrift within schema of mortal guise

ashes scattered all points on the compass

one bitcoin player in the blockchain of life wise

lee subsumed within world

wide web, this fate hain't no surprize!

It was 3:00 a.m. I could tell by the glow of the moon. I had become intoxicated by it night after night as we laid to rest, our backs facing one another. How unaware you were to me. My thoughts hushed as the hum of a train in distance breezed through a faint opening in my window. As my thoughts were called to mind what the melody of a memory can do, I was left to wonder. Effortlessly I began to bask in the capacity of my own mind to transport me back to a securer place in time. Willingly, my mind offered me the option to escape. Unapologetically, I accepted it every time.

The gift of my mind was either a beautiful tool of mastery or the art of my deception. I became subdued by your existence as you awoke. Bringing me back to a moment that I connected to casually, like in the way you left your arms around me. Soundlessly my mind whispered all the things I’d give up in the day only for you to recognize humanity in the night.

In the morning I’ll be turned, and my heart will be forgotten. Like the tired sound in an old town just as the night trains lapse through.

In your unwariness of my discernment now lives a souvenir from me to you. It rolls in the hush of the night, abandoning you sober in a series of memories I experienced alone. Can you hear it? The honor I conceived to this occasion at 3:00 a.m. How our minds play against each other like a symphony of reasons yearning to influence what becomes our composition.

if i get

winedrunk

i know the

nightmares

will come.

(the ones

of dark forests and lost

girls)

yet i drink

to see how far

into my

fear

i can wander.

i water

(with wine)

the growing

in my throat

that has pushed up against

the inside of

my lips

a mangled mass of

wordsbranchesthorns

that scar my gums,

leaving a bitterbloody taste

on my tounge.

i stain

teeth and branches

deep purple,

and i'm not sure if

i feel

afraid

or

brave

or

nothing at all.

i am so

intoxicated

i forget that

i have feet,

(roots?)

& so i fall

onto the ground

at least

now

the tangles

in my throat

are facing

the

sun.

She sways in the warm summer breeze like a sheaf of wheat, her bare feet planted in the spent soil. The moon is just a wink and her eyes have not yet adjusted; she wonders whether she’ll be swallowed by the dark earth beyond the oval of thin porch light, whether it is thirsty enough to open up and drink her down, down. It would be cool in the earth, and firm. Quiet.

The house, too, is quiet beneath the hum of cicadas and the whisper of breeze, but its quiet is anticipatory. Its quiet is a held breath, the suspended moment between booted footstep as they draw near to you: One. Two. One. Two.

The house knows how to swallow her into its silence. Many times it has opened its maw around her, and in eating it always grows hungrier. She can feel it now in the prickle of her neck, can feel the jaw opened wide behind her, the teeth poised to draw her back in and swallow her down, down. She wonders if this time it would crush her first with its dull molars, if this would be the final digestion.

The thirsty earth shivers at her just beyond the porch light, its grains of parched dirt rustling in the breeze. “I’ll drink you down, down,” the earth promises, “I’ll sip you like a glass of cool water.”

Her foot lifts, and then the other: one, two. “Alright,” she tells the earth as she steps into darkness, “okay,” because it sounds better to be sipped. She’s tired of being eaten.