unlike the adhan’s call to prayer
which slices five times daily through the noise-wrapped
debris that prides itself as my hood
this call is a one thousand, four hundred and forty thing,
a minute never slips out of the grave’s hands.
the grave? it’s the way it calls for me,
in cure places where lit candles are held by tired hands
to lead blades through the path of flesh,
on roads that swallow anything that dares to run on it,
with emergency services that need one minute silence,
or what, in the name of Fire, shall we call men who have no water to rescue?
the land gives it a platform to raise its voice,
crowning it as one of the most vocal guys here, with many unwilling followers.
sometimes, it calls and many people fall for its must-listen-to sour voice,
other times, it calls and leaves me thanking my Chi that
the guys in black accepted my ‘for the boys’ token,
without sending me off with
the hot words that rain from the cold iron’s mouth.
©Foyinsaye
