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<h5 class="wp-block-heading has-medium-font-size">BOYS TOO WERE RAPED</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse"> This city knows how to weigh down one's pride
it swallows our lives before we learn how to smile
so, pain is the first and last thing a boy wears.
Say, smiles aren't suitable for masculine visages
Perhaps this fallacy is just a silent murderer.
In tonight's verse, my pen dedicates it's tears
to a thousand boys who saw their first orgasm
almost at the point of death as they wailed
at the top of their voices, trying to flee from
the randiness of an opposite gender.
The first time my eyes saw a girl's nakedness
was at sixteen, when my body became an altar
for a forceful ritual of iniquity by a girl;
one who was twice the size of my entire body.
My story leaves many drops of water in my eyes 
yet I dare not to share it with anyone
cause a story like this is expected never from me,
I am only seen as a culprit but not a victim
so I fold my hurtful tales into the depths of my soul
and let them stay forever, but out of the audience 
cause such a memoir is a humiliation to my kind.</pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading has-medium-font-size">SUBDUED TONGUES ON THE BENUE BRIDGE </h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse"> The River Benue is a basin of holy water
 Floating with blessings to be sprinkled on those 
Who are worthy of it.
 On its bridge we hold hands
With tongues subdued to silence.
 We see stars glowing along with the sun
And we wonder if it is day or night.

 Hmmm... Our wits are confiscated 
 By elusiveness. Why do we now see butterflies
Beyond the orbit and at the same time, 
 Willows growing on the body of a river?
We see witches consulting gods on the holy altars
 Of churches yet pastors abandoned the sacred scripture,
Seeking witch hazel from shrines.

 The stream where parents poured intercessions
 For the redemption of their sons and daughters
Now dries up, before those prayers reach the feet of God
 We now look into our thoughts, wistful.
If time had known, we could have annihilated
 This hour before its birth
In order not to face this plight_ now flung to our faces.</pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading has-medium-font-size" style="text-transform:uppercase">TALES CAUGHT IN MOTHER’S BREATH </h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">As I stared into my mother's eyes, 
Her eyes weren't the same— 
The sparkles of her visage 
Were sponged off by depression 
And I had no clue as she was clouded in its hues. 
I wandered my eyes around her lips 
As she bitterly voiced uncultured words 
Into my ears; words whose contents were deeper 
Than my mind, yet Mother had to spit them on me 
To quench one out of the thousand burning flakes 
In her heart. Time passed by, and Mother was done 
With her series of hurtful tales, 
Piercing deeply into my heart 
But of what use are they to me? 
For I Know not what she meant, 
They only woke the prematurity in me. 
Listen as I say, 
That woman is my only comforter. 
As she wallows in pain, where should I seek solace? 
Alas! Father is there, healthy and strong 
But I bet you, he is as good as dead! 
For he wears a cloak of debts 
And labour on barren soil. Each day, he buries his head 
In my endless demands but unable to strike out any. 
I sighed, casting a look at the dining, where a tiny piece 
Of roasted yam lay as it surrendered itself, ready to be Munched by a family of ten. Then, I bowed my head in Shame, drizzling teardrops to the spirits of Heaven. 
</pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading has-medium-font-size" style="text-transform:uppercase">CROSSING THE BORDER</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">(<em>for victims of the 2023 Sudanese War) 
</em> 
We're victims of this hostile town 
whose rivers float with father's blood. 
 
Our feet trek not on dust 
but on the remains of mother's body 
 
where we hold misery like a sacrament for our souls. 
Here, our songs are drunk verses of elegies 
 
&; wails from a thousand mouths 
accompanied by gunshots as instrumentals 
 
thus; grief saturates our hearts, 
drawing the pictures of brethren 
 
whose whereabouts we know not 
yet their traces we fail to find 
 
as we're trapped amid buzzing bullets 
who seek the harvest of our lives 
 
while we map our routes to the border 
with hope for escape. 
 
Into the skies, we trace our eyes 
but lo! The heavens are too far from us 
 
&; all we see is the portrait of dark smoke 
with a parade of vultures 
 
feasting happily on the carcasses of lost lovers. 
Verily, we're a bunch of grieving souls, 
 
dispersed on the surface of a bleeding land 
Oh! Dearest future, save our trembling fate 
 
that as we flee across the border 
may our footprints be not erased 
 
so we one day shall find our way back home 
when at last, this disastrous era is over. </pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading has-medium-font-size">MEMORIES </h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">We wear our smiles at dawn 
but take them off at dusk. 
Memories rise and fall— 
such is life, like a rose plant, 
reflecting in the portrait of beauty 
yet on its stem are sharp thorns 
that pricks you back to reality, 
after you had become a drunkard of its beauty. 
Nature gifts us with life, and sends death, 
a messenger who fails not to deliver 
waiting patiently for the right time to strike 
and strip off the precious gift from our hold. 
Sorrow falls like drops of rain, 
each bearing the names of gone relations 
whose memories are captivated 
within the hearts of our tales lengthier than 
The Euphrates. 
When eternity summons our souls, 
in haste, we must assemble, 
we roam on the crust of the earth today 
and lie inside its belly tomorrow: 
To dust, we all must return. 
</pre>



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<p class="has-text-align-right has-background" style="background-color:#f1f1f8">Daniel Aôndona, known as <em>“The Newborn Poet,”</em> is a young Nigerian writer originating from Benue State and based in Abuja, Nigeria. He is a versatile poet, storyteller, and book reviewer, with his works featured in literary publications such as B<em>rittle Paper, Synchronized Chaos Family, Spillwords Magazine, Arts Lounge, </em>and<em> World Voices Magazine</em>. You can connect with him on Twitter (X) via @aondonadaniel30 and reach out to him via email at <em>aondonadaniel30(at)gmail.com</em>.</p>
 
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‘BOYS TOO WERE RAPED’ / ‘SUBDUED TONGUES ON THE BENUE BRIDGE’ / ‘TALES CAUGHT IN MOTHER’S BREATH’ / ‘CROSSING THE BORDER’ / ‘MEMORIES’ | five poems by Daniel Aôndona
Photo by Jamie Intwari | pexels.com