IN THE GAME OF FORGETTING. Healing is a game of forgetfulness - Pamilerin Jacob. For Taiwo In a ludo game, you rolled a dice, & the number of times a man shredded you appears. This game was meant to help you forget & not roll the stone off the tomb where your memories are being buried. Nothing checkmates you other than the lettered tiles left with you in the game of Scrabble which forms his name. You ask, is there a game of forgetting where the memories of his face becomes a picture puzzle unable to be completed Or the sound of his voice muffles & shuffles beneath other voices? In every game, there seems to be a thing reminding you of him rather than obliviating him, This eats you into nothingness - the same way fire feeds on a paper into nihility. This makes your heart bleed; seeking for the hem of a God's garment, but sometimes, healing is the game to help you forget. GETTING FAMILIAR WITH HAPPINESS Does happiness associates with only those it is familiar with? This poem isn't about me showering flurries of my ordeals likes now but of a boy whom like the cock cries to say it's another mourning. They say it's a taboo for a boy to drown in his salinity. But, look behind you, a boy holds onto a rose shrouded with thorns - he bleeds. As a boy, I was told to learn how to hold onto pains, But pain is like having a tormented mouse covered on your skin. Some people think my sanity is shape shifting when I say; I trudge daily to watch the birds, study the ants, sit by the lagoons, & listen to the wind. These I do to acquaint on how the birds do not clip their wings at a bad weather, to learn how the ants carry things twice their size & weight & not faint, to learn how the lagoons adapt to calmness & how the wind learns to be carriers of breath. If happiness associates only with those it is familiar with, then my trudging is way I get familiar with happiness. MY BROTHER SPEAKS TO MUM BUT CALLS IT TONGUE & i leaning behind my brother's door hear him say things like "ai-ly-ca-po-ly-shi-man-da". I do not know what this mean but he proclaimed tongues. My pastor once said in his sermon that "speaking in tongue is an heavenly language: a communication to the heavens". He must have found a way to speak to mum. He no longer breaks like an egg yolking out tears. I envy you, brother. i too want to speak in tongue; & i do not mean to say prayer, I mean I want to unstack these syllables stacked in my lungs, I mean I can no longer breathe with these words becoming a knee to my throat. Help me brother /help me/ help me learn edification like you did, that i may continue to bear & not break at the clutches of loosing an interlocutor.
Adedoyin Kayode is an emerging writer. He writes both poems and short stories. His writing explores pain, love and depression. His poems has appeared/ forthcoming on Librettong Magazine, African writers, Mixedmag, Muse madness press, olney magazine. He was short listed for the African writers lockdown challenge.
Watching in sigh-lens is his best way of recording scenes. You can find him on twitter: @Adedoyinkayod12 and Instagram: @kayzee_blinkz