By Moshkur Ajikobi
I had wanted to paint a self-portrait of euphoria
in the hands of its seeker,
but this one, too, dragged & locked me
inside my room.
my faulty fan heard my incoherent soliloquy.
When it stopped fanning, I knew, someday,
it'd find another means of serving me.
And now it offered to gently take my soul
to my ancestors. When they died,
suicide hadn't made it to the dictionary.
But now, all I need is a faulty ceiling fan
and a strong rope, enough to hold me
in my soft neck, and without landing legs,
the pain of yesteryears would discharge
my pendulous body.
My father said death does us a favour
when a soul is taken. In my father's tongue,
death is pain reliever. But why do we
detest death even in the seemingly unending agony?
Why do we cry after receiving death's favour?
And when we die,
the soil is quick to admit our useless bodies
into its abode and save the air from pollution.
The grave must be a good Samaritan, but I still wonder
why no one needs its assistance regardless.
Moshkur Ajikobi (fondly called P-Seven) is a Nigerian poet, writer, and advocate of Islamic literature.
His work appears or is forthcoming in The Kalahari Review, TVO Tribe, Almir'aat Magazine, Punk Noir Magazine, Lunch Break Zine, Rather Quiet, Coven Poetry, Riverbed Review, Brown Bag Online, Eremite Poetry, OneBlackBoyLikeThat Review and elsewhere.