The Saying Goodbye to Vero’ Series continues today with more poets airing their muses’ words. 

‘…Only Poets are in the best position to understand and interpret the shady blurred reality of death…’
…Odeyemi John Law

Read and comment.


***

Two Poems


ETERNAL NIGHT

A POSTHUMOUS WREATH FOR A SISTER COLLEAGUE


ALELE TI LE, OJUMO O MO MO

ILE SUU KIRIKIRI---- WHERE IS THE ELEGANT MORNING?

Dawn has been assassinated; eternal night triumphs.

            I prepared soft and classical eba

Awaiting the herbal leaf of efo

Rather. My ear is fed with lullabies of bedtime

Eemo re o*** abomination* when did eba become mortal?

                        Chieftaincy is a corollary of royalty

A matriarch with peacock’s head and antelope’s feet

   Has been p l u c k ed by impetuous death; impish and peevish

Oyemade

From friendship, you’ve ellipted ship- detaining friend

 To aid your procession with the convoy of pioneers of a(fter)lives

 You have taken a pause and punctuated corporeal life

Just that we miss the vacuum you fill; the enduring requests.

I won’t make iku proud by shedding my eyes

Won’t grotesque my countenance with gloomy cosmetics

In the womb of my heart; the soil of my lead you shall gain life

OYELOLA, yeyeola, yeye- oye-laaa
***                   ***                  ***
VERONICA was abducted into death’s lair but engendered life.

Babajide Michael Literati


***

LAMENT FROM THE GRAVE

I deserve a funeral rite

Despite the plodding angst in the abyss of your mind

A six-feet at least

Even if I heaped sorrow on your heart


I was once the harbinger of your joy

The vortex that enlivened the happiness in your home

When I sprouted

You were all glad

I know


But why was I shrouded like a minion?

Lowered by mere acquaintances?


Blame not my destiny

For ramming into me half way

For bringing an end to my story

Take heart and be sad no more


Recompense looms

For I will return

Think not of me

But you

Maybe we shall meet.

Matthew Bisi Adewuyi



‘…In our hypocritical ignorance, we tend to cry and mourn the dead but always too quick to forget them. After the physical death, they even die in our memories - multiple deaths. We should endeavour to make their memory linger…’ …Odeyemi John Law

Poetry slips into my Saying Goodbye to Vero' Series as I feature Tola Adegbite. Let’s not forget the read-and-comment ritual. It's therein that our individual condolences are expressed. Thanks.

***


SHE RESIGNS

By Tola Adegbite

Help praise this warrior

Paint her picture with victory colours

Adorn her image with the flowers of splendour

With no weapon she broke the gate of illness

Exposing it to the breeze of shame

Praise this courageous woman

She was never enslaved to sickness

But rather brace the air of freedom

Leaving this cruel world

For eternity to dwell                                                  

With faith she signs her resignation letter

Written by fate with the ink of time

Amidst the tears, amidst the sorrow

I know the truth, the truth of it

Vero' is not dead, she only resigns

'The last time I saw her, I was wearing a round neck top customised ‘Veronica’ and she made a joke about me wearing her...I promise to keep wearing you 'cos your memory lives on.' … Akinbobola Iteoluwa Omalicha (culled from Facebook)

Vero', she did wear you today and I remember you were also wearing life inside of you this time last week. Albeit, on a sick bed. Rest in peace dear. 

My Saying Goodbye to Vero’ Series, which started yesterday continues with Joseph Omotayo’s piece. Read and feel free to drop your condolences. The ones dropped so far are appreciated.

***

AND VERONICA DIED…

By Joseph Omotayo

Forgive me if I write in ellipsis. My thoughts are broken and so will I show them. Ellipsis will do.

Memories…

Veronica passed away, recently… I can’t think… I must write. Veronica will live on… I can’t see it…clearly. My heart is dark now… I must be the next to the devil. I am the only one insane, presently.

I still can write… it seems I am not touched by this loss… I am not pulled… I am writing about this… I must be the devil. Writing about this is devilish… Wait… Am I still writing…? It seems I still have the strength to order my thoughts. Again, that’s devilish. When you lose someone, you shouldn’t be as ordered as I am. I don’t think I am moved by this loss. Say I am evil once again. Yes, I am. I am not human… I am just too collected to be one. I am not human. I am the devil. My heart is so dark now.

This year… I have seen a death too many. I refuse to pluralise death. Death is single. A single collected experience. Anyway, death shouldn’t be my catchword. Scratch out those death words. I hate them. Scorn death… Veronica did. And she lives. She is still living. And why the tears anyway? Please, stop. Veronica… I know where she is… Tell her loved ones I said so… But sorry she wouldn’t graduate with this present set. She is just smarter than you all… She wrote life and passed away. Her coursemates will all submit their projects and leave the four walls of Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife, to face life… Veronica is life already… She is smarter.

Wait…! Is this a tribute? It can’t be. This piece can’t be obituary… I am only recording… Veronica is my subject.

Veronica…

Ok, agreed. That was the best option you took. But you should have stayed – say – a day. You stopped me from writing erotica this week. And I am vexed. You should know how my anger can burn. Just delay the pallbearers for some secs. Wait a little until my anger is spent? We have some score to settle. You paused my erotica this week. And I am rattled.

Don’t mistake this… I write for Veronica. Veronica alone… Don’t mistake the ellipses… They are unlike your watery SMSes; the ones you send to your fake lovers and admirers; badgering them for airtime vouchers or sex. Mine are more important. These lines…are not poetry. They may be poetic. Whatever joor… Veronica is my only concern… My girlfriend won’t be jealous. Don’t bother… she will understand. For now, I think of Vero.

Vero…

It’s not every day a girl, a damsel, walks up to you and the only thing she says is how she’s been following you, your writings, on your blog. Any guy will scamper to make Vero’s acquaintance. Vero strode down to my side some weeks back and gushed she knows TrueTalk, my blog. I blushed. I was happy. Vero venerated my writing… Days later, I would ask Oyebanji Ayodele, her friend, about Vero. I would want to know, from him, when he thought Vero had been reading my words, on my blog. Oyebanji Ayodele’s responses were not satisfactory. Or maybe Vero could only have answered them better…

Vero… TrueTalk knows you before I met you physically. But now, how do I go telling TrueTalk, my blog, you wouldn’t again visit and contribute to its readership traffic…? This is the hardest part… I can’t. Remember I said I am not human? Only a human will lose a dear one like you and still write this long.

Vero… where else now…?

Now, my tears drop. I am moved… Say I am human once again…because I just cried. My touchpad is slippery with my tears…

I can’t write further… Please, Vero… Wake. Up. And. Make. Me. Human.

I should know you more than my blog, TrueTalk does.

Death, stop! My neighbours and friends are becoming fewer. Enough now!

Courtesy of Opayinka Moyosore

This post is the first of a series I will be doing alongside some friends of mine. It is in memory of someone dear to us, Oyemade Veronica Oyelola (20).  She left this world for the world beyond last Friday, after a brief illness.  The post was meant to be published last Friday as a get well soon post for her. However, it was in the process of publishing the post that her demise was announced.

I pray that God grants the family and friends the fortitude to bear the loss.

***

THAT MOMENT…

By Oyebanji Ayodele

For one of the many I love, my 'two and three and two'. I wish you a speedy recovery. Rest in Peace.

That moment you get to know she's on the second drip; that she's to be transferred to the Teaching Hospital, you decide to stab the class. You ignore the drip of urine that streams down your penile hose as you appease the lecturer to allow you go irrigate the white cistern at the end of the block of classrooms. He agrees.

Liar!

You scream at bikes and they think you are mad. That you'll bite their helmets and heads off their necks. They flee. You get one eventually and you slap him on the back.

‘More speed!’

You get to the hospital to see her being lifted into an ambulance. You hand the biker his pay. He makes to give you your change but you are gone.

You sit by her in the ambulance, holding her hands and murmuring excerpts of Psalms. They don’t come out in full at such times. No matter how short.

That moment the ambulance arrives at the Emergency Unit of the Teaching Hospital, you observe her breath. She pants ceaselessly and you jump out of the bus. You scream at the snailing nurses. You don't care being regarded as mad. You find her a wheelchair and trundle her till you get a vacant bed.  

A third drip is fixed. Tension builds in your body. You gift the air a hushed fart.

That moment the latest okada accident victim murders the silence in the ward with his shrill of mo daran o, she opens her eyes and asks if she is close to hell. You want to express some faith. You tell her the hospital is nearer to heaven. The air conditioner murmurs its attestation. She believes and shuts her eyes.

That moment you decide to ask how she feels and all you get is a mouth open like the gaping cover of a coffin and tiny globules of tears swimming down her pale face, you think about death. Death! And the black bowlers of undertakers. You dip your tongue in King James’ incantations:

‘Thou shalt not die but live…’

You never believed in them, but everything should be done to keep heaven and hell far from her. You want her back. You want to kiss her on the forehead.

That moment you slip your hand into her palm with your thumb massaging the back like an alfa does to his prayer beads, you see her breath regulate itself. Then, you remember how helpful a rub could be. You curse the doctors and their insensitivity. You serve her your palm.

Your palms mate; hers on top. At that moment, you both doze off. Your hand in hers. Your chair, by her bed.

You move into a new world. That of reminiscences.

They creep into your view. The handshakes. And hugs. Fights.  And make-ups. The video seems 3gp-ish, you think.

Snap! A cleaner slips and falls.

You wake. She shudders.

‘I don't want to sleep again,’ she says.

You know it. That she fears death. You do too.

Your eyes catch a stretcher being pushed out of the ward. On it is a pregnant woman. She’s completely covered with a white spread. You turn dumb. Your eyes baptize your face.

‘Lailai, you can never die,’ you find your voice, clicking two fingers around your head.

You press your lips to the back of her palm. 

***

This series continues tomorrow. Your condolences are valued. Please drop them in the comment box with your name.

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