Jeremiah Agbaakin
after Terrance Hayes
if you’re addicted to a mother tongue, try public
speaking. if you’re addicted to speaking, try high
platforms: rostrum, balcony, hill top, observation
desk in a city’s tallest building. there’s some link
between fear of heights & fear of public speaking
not since the tower of Babel & if you’re addicted
to towers, try a stairwell on your way up. if you’re
addicted to stairwells, try a spiral stair, patterned
like the biggest fossil the beachcomber could find
and turn into fish. or try revisit the memory reeled
in a VHS film, titled Nigbadiesi. Soon, a movie with
a plot that quickly spirals out of control: a wedding
dress on fire & a tyre necklacing the groom. you
sat nursed in fear and silence by a deaf woman,
Taiye odi, who was duly credited with your dislike
for small talks in the pre-school, that lowest rung
on the ivory tower & if you’re addicted to ivory
towers, try two graduation gowns, tasseled hats
& a valedictorian speech in high school where
you were once on stage, the chief speaker in an
oratory contest where your words simply walked
away. where the school diagnosed Vernacular
as the chief cause of the bad English, mother-tongue
interference. if you’re addicted to mother-tongue
try the whip, if you’re addicted to the whip, try fines.
Poun Marun for each breach of the rule. if you’re
addicted to rules, try more graduation gowns
and tasseled crowns. throw down a gauntlet for further
studies abroad, where the white man compels you
to speak his language, is surprised you can speak.
