At Sunrise, We Are Waterfalls
 
they say in our youth we are daffodils
blossoming in the cutting edge of spring.
well, i’m with my pals
& there are no petals on the faces of boys who should be flowers.
so instead, i say maturity is a gunman 
who places his rifle to our temples and leads our ego to a jigsaw…
too proud to ask for answers;
too far to go back.
i say maturity is a compassionate thief that takes everything
& leaves us with memories.
 
i say at childhood, we were boys at shore picking seashells and making sandcastles.
& on one sunrise, paddles were shoved into our green hands,
to set sail and cast nets in cold waters that we have never known before.
i once read in my dictionary that
a waterfall is a cascade of water falling from a height, over a precipice or steep incline.
and the next day, i'd asked my geography teacher why the lexicographers did not say it as '…falling heavily…'
because i think the days of our youth is a weighty waterfall;
not a spring for daffodils.
 
tomorrow, i'll be asked to give a word of encouragement to some school kids.
i’ll tell them to enjoy their days at the shore.
i’ll tell them to pick more seashells. make more sandcastles.
watch the somersaulting and breaking of the waves.
& toe the waters occasionally.
 
because very soon,
it shall be sunrise.
 
Disillusion
 
when we were boys, 
everything was held like a hooked needle 
and our expectations were crocheted into garments too colourful to be worn.
i remember elementary school.
i remember our classrooms and corridors strewn with pictures of heroes past.
i remember we would argue—for long—
about who would be like who;
and i would not talk to my best friend because he had just said he wanted to be like the hero who i first said i wanted to be like.
i remember that composition writing that won me my last prize in elementary school– "When I Eventually Become Africa's Youngest Pilot"
& i still have photographs of myself on our annual school career day.
i did not look bad in cockpit cloths.
 
well, today, a desperate young man wrestles his very last linen
from the cold hold of a society that assured him a wardrobe.
 
 

Enobong is a Nigerian writer resident in Lagos. He has particular interest in creative writing and essay writing; and has written several short fictions and poems (including haiku) that cut across subjects including nature, humanity, culture, Africanism, social and national consciousness, nostalgic events, politics, the Divine, and death. He has also authored a number of essays and articles. His works have been previously published on Praxis Magazine, Haikuniverse, Nnoko Stories, The Shallow Tales Review, Nantygreens Magazine, Nymph Journal, Words Rhymes and Rhythm, Writenow Literary Journal, The Zen Space, Nasara Creative, and elsewhere. His haiku is also forthcoming in the Wales Haiku Journal Spring 2021 issue.
Currently, Enobong is a law student at the University of Lagos.

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