Travelogue
i
there is a road riddled with a silence that
is riddled into a rhythm. i ask --
what can a body not fold into a song?
on the road's flayed tongue from Kaduna, i see
the silent shrubs slumbering through the air
swing softly to this rhythm, the bus barraging
through a whirr of it pooling towards us,
musicking the road out of its turbulence.
i fathom this is how the bus
musicks its rust into a rhythm, bending a traveler's
reluctance into a whisper of dance. the tuke tuke
swinging bodies into fatigue as if saying 'this
is our inheritance'—to collect the traveler's body,
& vomit them at arrival into the rot of another city.
ii
at Kwangila, a boy whose body sembles rust
points to his belly and yawns into a bowl
near the ears of a city. & as if beating a drum,
beats the quietude of the bowl into extinction
until silence is battered into a song of penury.
see, the belly is clogged with languages the tongue
learns to batter into words & i learn, that music
stretches from a tongue that stretches out
from the belly of wants & desires.
iii
at a close distance, 30 feet shuffle into a mosque,
prayers pressed between their bodies
and faith. each man shaping his silence into prayers.
near the marketplace, there is a
sigh beneath the breath of a woman
whose canines were adages
clenched on the disavowment of joy.
at noon, she cursed at the sun for promenading
the countenance of hell. i'm beginning to think
that, too, is a song — that desire can proselytize as anger.
i have learnt that everything begins with silence. a
song. a prayer. language — the rhythm of a tongue.
even a sigh. even a sigh.
BIO:
Mathew Daniel (He/Him) is a Nigerian, a poetry enthusiast, and a student of Mass Communication who also volunteers as a reviewer for Writers Space Africa. His works have appeared on WSA lit mag, Olney Magazine, Konya Shamsrumi, Poetic Africa and elsewhere. He tweets @_MathewDaniel_
there is a road riddled with a silence that
is riddled into a rhythm. i ask --
what can a body not fold into a song?
on the road's flayed tongue from Kaduna, i see
the silent shrubs slumbering through the air
swing softly to this rhythm, the bus barraging
through a whirr of it pooling towards us,
musicking the road out of its turbulence.
i fathom this is how the bus
musicks its rust into a rhythm, bending a traveler's
reluctance into a whisper of dance. the tuke tuke
swinging bodies into fatigue as if saying 'this
is our inheritance'—to collect the traveler's body,
& vomit them at arrival into the rot of another city.
ii
at Kwangila, a boy whose body sembles rust
points to his belly and yawns into a bowl
near the ears of a city. & as if beating a drum,
beats the quietude of the bowl into extinction
until silence is battered into a song of penury.
see, the belly is clogged with languages the tongue
learns to batter into words & i learn, that music
stretches from a tongue that stretches out
from the belly of wants & desires.
iii
at a close distance, 30 feet shuffle into a mosque,
prayers pressed between their bodies
and faith. each man shaping his silence into prayers.
near the marketplace, there is a
sigh beneath the breath of a woman
whose canines were adages
clenched on the disavowment of joy.
at noon, she cursed at the sun for promenading
the countenance of hell. i'm beginning to think
that, too, is a song — that desire can proselytize as anger.
i have learnt that everything begins with silence. a
song. a prayer. language — the rhythm of a tongue.
even a sigh. even a sigh.
BIO:
Mathew Daniel (He/Him) is a Nigerian, a poetry enthusiast, and a student of Mass Communication who also volunteers as a reviewer for Writers Space Africa. His works have appeared on WSA lit mag, Olney Magazine, Konya Shamsrumi, Poetic Africa and elsewhere. He tweets @_MathewDaniel_
