O-Jeremiah Agbaakin
there’s a language for love & one for seething.
a third walks in uninvited into their gida to join
mon oncle & his wife in a bicker. i’m their new nephew
after the réveille of our country’s bugle
summoned me here for service corps; seeped
my roots dry, far from the littoral to the mouth
of a desert in Sokoto, a souk town rallying all.
i’m an étranger depending on how tongue-deep
they are into la brouille, the bone of contention.
a third language walks in uninvited. adìye bà l'ókùn,
a perching fowl unsettles the rope, snapping what
i may know of their trouble. the stairs end as i follow.
je suis désolé for sitting on a fence, mon oncle.
i knew there’s trouble when Yoruba walked out first
of the room; and in your mouth, the colonizer’s
came and left as soon as it couldn’t hold your rage.
excuse me. je ne parle La Haoussa. i’m only just
months arrived to this Chadic language you spar in.
Gaskiya, i heard name-calling but couldn’t answer.
you turn your hand like a sign in the ignition to purr
to life. i’m riding shotgun with you, but if you turn
to ask what i think, i’ll say: ara ò r'okùn, ara ò r'adìyẹ,
the perching fowl, unsettling the rope, unsettles itself.