By Adedayo Onabade The church hall is packed full pews crowded and aisles stuffed with mourning heads. Everyone is gathered for the very last time for a happy soul, a lively spirit a compendium of dreams and intentions— to look upon the face that was never robbed of a grin, and even now lay in the casket with a smirk (that last registered expression, as one in mockery of life); Or bragging in the face of death as if to say, 'Your time stamp of finality and your scroll of records are only a glitch in the continuum of my existence.' Not even stressors could deflect the warmth you once radiated—a glaring contrast to the pain we now feel as we sit huddled in the auditorium of St. Martin’s, our hearts raging at the failure of sheer desire to tap you awake, back from the realms of eternal history into present aliveness A miracle from which we should all abscond should it ever happen And our minds weighed with a barrage Of questions and musings each one a slat of inquiry poking at life's essence and wanton penchant for grand ironies: That the apex of achievements boils down to a descent To that trench of dark certitude, sure to consume men of all statuses, great and trifling. Shallow. You enter in with ease, even so without your own two feet And Deep. Once installed and sealed in, you will live on only in memory, transcending time and presence, basking in fluid retention and the vigorous yearning for a miracle against all facts, hope, and knowledge. Where you are, it is hot. No air, yet you are as cold as the death that eclipsed you; lonely but not alone—burrowers find their way to you A feast is ready, you are the meal Not really you, but the shell case that housed you. Your sonorous voice, no longer heard in the melodies of moving hymnal renditions at Sunday mass, Is today locked in the times you spoke, laughed, sang Your vibrant voice reciting scriptures with a sure and steady purpose now silent as though you are absent. But you aren't. We do not see you stand by, now stripped of the shock that plagued you then. As Death’s first jolts ran through your veins, sending your brain into a flurry of activity, a slideshow of the days you lived before your eyes until the culmination of your breath when your soul projected out of your body, that shell-case. Vain urgency is now deadened, but one thing lives on in you: the knowing that as you closed your eyes in death, you merely took a temporary pose in time to open them elsewhere. Writer's BiographyAdedayo Onabade is a Nigerian essayist, fiction, and poetry writer. She holds a B.A. from Olabisi Onabanjo University and an M.A. from the University of Lagos, both in English Literature. Her works have been shortlisted for SynCity's 'Poetry in times of Corona' and #TwitterWritingContest.
Adedayo volunteers with STER (Stand to End Rape Initiative), a social justice organization that works to combat sexual and gender-based violence against women, girls, and vulnerable people. Beyond writing, she is fascinated by NatGeoWild, art galleries, reading, and documentaries.
7 Comments
1/4/2022 02:20:18 pm
The poem is really really intriguing, at first it seems clear that it's about a lost father, but moving on it reveals the thing's that wouldn't have been unknown. Overall, it's a good poem. I love how the poem flows through. From the first stanza to the last.
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Edith
2/4/2022 04:15:21 pm
This poem talks about the vanity of life. The truth about our existence. The earthly end of all men. DEATH
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Aderinkoye Olugbenga
2/4/2022 11:08:29 pm
This is awesome!
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Bodaagba
3/4/2022 06:03:22 pm
The writer in her poem like the biblical prophets of old re-awake the transient nature of the mortal man, that he will not live forever.
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Faith
5/4/2022 12:03:15 am
The poem is about someone reminiscing on the pain of losing an accomplished and happy loved one
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10/4/2022 11:10:54 pm
I relate to this piece on a personal level.
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Zik
22/4/2022 06:25:41 pm
Life is transient.....a fleeting breath!
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