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<h5 class="wp-block-heading">WHAT TO SAY TO THE BOY THAT ASKS FOR THE REMNANTS OF RAIN</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">here, we build houses with decayed, 
unburied bodies that forgot the other 
new ways to breathe in the land 
where flowers, too, are names given 
to the family of bullets that haunt 
the bodies that refuse to fall. 
see, maybe, when the sun's 
eyes become weary and darkness 
wears the crown, a masked face 
might ask if the graveyard 
is full, so he would unearth those 
that got their halves blessed to be 
buried in a grave as a way to shelter 
the remnants of his fallen body; an 
escape from being wholly flooded 
by the flooding water that holds 
the melanin of blood. you see, here, 
when children grow beards, they 
metamorphose into night heroes, 
visiting home after home, burying 
the mouths of their brothers with 
notes only to have the ballots 
thumbed on their strange rooms. 
today, let me tell you what to say 
to the boy that always asks for the 
remnants of rain, tell him here is a 
land turned to a Kalahari—a new 
desert formed by our unploughed 
prayers and burning wishes. if you 
like, snuff the monster out of your 
mouth and tell him about the 
remnants of the rain who could 
only be seen when we grind the 
satanic dots between what our 
mouths utter. tell him it could only 
wet our withered bodies when we 
bury the things hovering the arena 
in our craniums; things that are 
synonymous to building sandhouses 
together after the rain. such things 
beyond things like he gave us poetry 
when our eyes were searching for 
rain, or he taught us how to pray 
under the roofs where angels that 
carry in their mouth hymns sung 
from the heaven, stay. tell him you 
mean such things beyond what our 
hearts could feel. and the remnants 
of the orphaned rain is lying here 
between our ribs, sieving the dust 
trying to blur the eye's of this 
night would born. </pre>



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<h5 class="wp-block-heading">METAMORPHOSIS</h5>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">when we were children, 
there was a man we used to climb, 
with a labyrinth of thoughts, 
that we would touch the sky. 
and, whenever we climb, 
he would promise taking us 
to another world—with birds, 
with trees; a kind where 
antelopes play a chase 
game with bats. and another 
day he would stand 
near our room, singing the 
alphabets of our names; 
with smiles, with delight, &; in 
chorus, we would answer 
and climb, again. a day, week 
and a month passed, still 
waiting for the return of his 
soft whispers, but he didn't 
come, again. got tired and asked, 
“where is the man we used 
to climb?” and mother said, 
“you have sent him to become 
the moon; to the place where 
only the feet of stars step. and, 
i have seen in the notes written 
in his radiant eyes, a numbered 
tombstones of your dreams”. </pre>



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<p class="has-text-align-right has-black-color has-text-color has-background" style="background-color:#ade6fe">Salim Yakubu Akko is a Nigerian writer, poet and essayist from Gombe state. He has been published in Applied Worldwide, Brittle Paper, The Pine Cone Review, World Voices Magazine and elsewhere. Akko’s work was shortlisted for the 2021 Bill Ward Prize for Emerging Writers. He is a member of the Gombe Jewel Writers Association, the Creative Club of Gombe State University, and the Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation. He is @AkkoSalim on Twitter.</p>
 
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‘WHAT TO SAY TO THE BOY THAT ASKS FOR THE REMNANTS OF RAIN’ & ‘METAMORPHOSIS’ (two poems by Salim Yakubu Akko)
