-Dayọ̀ Ayílárá

Bàámi,

I have walked the dusty roads

where your feet once etched silence into the earth.

I have tasted the harmattan

and felt its wisdom blade my skin

like the truths you carved into my ears

with your eyes—

the only tool you ever needed

to teach me reverence.

They say time forgets,

but I have not forgotten

how you brewed meaning from silence,

how you wore pride

like a second skin,

how your laughter

was a brief reprieve

from the weight of this world.

You said:

“Keep your back straight,

even when your hands are empty.”

And so I did,

even now that grief bends me

like a sapling under rain.

The kolanut you left on the mat

has withered,

but I chew it still

in memory,

bitterness and all.

I write you now,

not for answers—

but because I am another you

you may now read yourself 

in me

before the flipping the page.