It is poems like these that begin
with “it is days like these”
and it is days like these that end up awkward―
a blot of reflection finally infects
the ennui that drowns,
giving off an epiphany like meeting Christ.
Solomon was wise; Baltasar Gracian was wiser―
the truth doesn’t stop you dead in your tracks
or drag you down a mileage before revealing itself.
It is days like these that you hug for warmth―
your credentials, relics of your timeline,
yet curse the cursive font because of the fallacy numbers proclaim.
The aim is to divide and rule:
numbers created in chaos, branding us like horses in a race.
Or you star daily in Boardroom corporeal episodes
flanking you are first Class princes on the right,
third Class bureaucrats on the left.
you chose to be lukewarm, so God spat you out.
Here we are―rebels, soldiers, prisoners, miners, potters, masons, minstrels, strangers, wanderers, pilgrims, fallen angels―
all the leftovers, the entire suicidal lot.
It is days like these
that you crawl home, into the evening from your cubicle.
The mentor suggested the crossroads to be the most fertile
for renegotiating humble beginnings.
So you’re crawling home after making love to the grime,
expecting showers of blessings.
Bath all you want,
Tonight’s dreams will be a rehearsal of yesterday’s sins..
Oluwaloni Olowookere lives in Ilesha.