1. When a virus was dressed in rapture • Circa 2020: How it burgled our country In the hem of a certain night befuddled The omniscient among us. A prelude to rapture, some would call— I recall. A prophet could not Document this ambush on his calendar Of foresight. So much for the unforeseen That struck like a meteor, with God's Thunderous wrath, and we fear God Here than God himself instructs us to— How we fashion our parade of charades. I would ask Him who enraged you To this threshold like a fearful believer. Right through the earth's cranium Surged a deep cut, pillaging the grounds Of Akure beyond its grave— About 12 feet. Who burgles the earth In her own layers of skin? The wonders That never end. Could this succeed The seventh world wonder, or it has not come To make history, but to destroy The humanity that histories have built? 2. The Dawn of Reflection • Like water, I watch the sky descend on me The yellowish moon wearing a smile To see herself glow once again After the turbulence of night And its dark mystery. I am her mirror— Absorbing celestial beauty on my skin. The sky imitates me When there's nothing left of it. Or is it the emptiness of clouds Waiting to be pregnant of water? I am everything the sky aspires To become, that it keeps descending. That's how you keep looking At yourself through me As you set for the road everyday. And I watch over you always. And I never leave you To your bewilderment. 3. Inside the doors of my silence • I have left my shadows behind— Was with this dark shield till I Find my way back. Do not raise The dead when he finds eternity Where you refused to lead him. If I had to go alone to answer The questions of my blank pages, I wouldn't need a company. The roads in my head have always Led home— places alien to your Tribe and lineage. My silence Should not make you mourn. I am at peace with you, but My body revolts against this Climate staring us in the eye. 4. Silhouette • Lust takes a shape to be known Where colours become a blindspot. He once asked his own echoes: 'who is this magic'? when he saw Her silhouette. She was a hourglass. And it was eight post meridian In his dark room— the universe aligned Time with the shape of this gazelle. African Aphrodite. Jug at the door step. He turned the lights on And a figment of his hallucinations Was the imagination that faded Into the neons of the atmosphere. He couldn't see the face of What he would never resist, But he knew she was exactly What he wanted— the magic. No thanks to the light in the background. He turned the lights off and wanked.
--- Tukur Ridwan (He/Him) writes from a coastal axis in Lagos Island. He juggles his expectations of reality and his acknowledgement of the universe's dream for humanity. His poems appear in Gyroscope Review, Cordite Poetry Review, The African Writers Magazine, Kalahari Review, Rising Phoenix, ARTmosterrific, Art Of Peace Anthology 2019, Z Publishing - Best Emerging Poets 2019, Best New African Poets Anthology 2019 and elsewhere. He won the Brigitte Piorson Monthly Poetry Contest (March 2018) and shortlisted in few others. He explores the vastness and finiteness; sanctity and vanity of existence: memories, identity, creation, lust, ruins and loss.