Blurred lines and turning graves!

I used to be the daughter who told tales with my mother’s bed beneath my silver spoon. Now I am the careless daughter who’s lost her keys.

I am lost in this old city, where the white act black and the black lose their pride as they continually stripped themselves of themselves and the brown wallow in the predicament known as their religion. It seems almost impossible to find myself in an already absent root.

I remember the first day I set foot into this city, perfect dialect seize. Language embedded hidden in order to avoid applying for class clown. I have always heard stories about how my blood will run for the hills when it sees Lucifer coming.

My mother has always told me – ‘Ron ti ile ti o ti ja de wa, kor de ron ti omo ti iwo se’ which means ‘to always remember the house I was brought up in and always remember the child of whom I am’. Daddy would love that. Her words strike neither faith nor fear like a gun to my head would, those are nothing but washed down words, passed on from generation. One time, some kid took her for a sucker, stole her shoes and left her to suffer consequences. she walked bare footed home over 5 miles, only to receive some beatings.

In this big old city, my ways are out of place and it is no longer news to me. My tongue is starting to lose all its definition, no it doesn’t speak Africa.

In this big old city, I have created a sanctuary.

My glasses remains foggy and my perception of home is starting to look crystal clear. I am the living highlights to everyone’s Saturday night television, entertaining others with my lost self; while I listen to the recital of my life be told back to me. Grandmother turning in her grace for the words from her tongue has lost all its meaning. The mouth of babes that once voiced out stories of liberation is no longer speaking with wisdom.

In this big old city, where the white act black, as the black lose their pride as stripped themselves from themselves, the brown wallow in the predicament known as their religion; I choose to be the exception.

Emi o son nu mo. No longer will I be known as the careless daughter who lost the silver keys once cherished; no longer will the words of an atheist be the judge of my faith; no more will you beat me in telling tales of liberation once told to me

No longer am I lost.

2 thoughts on “Blurred lines and turning graves!

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