Mud water
 
When I say each folds of their Agbada
swallows a citizen, I mean my brothers' souls 
have been crushed under each of its folds.
 
When I say a movement of their feet
crushes the leaders of tomorrow, I mean 
we are like a cockroach caught under a huge feet.
 
In my country,  you will see how dreams of young 
boys and girls are removed like a deleted tweet, 
where dreams with wings flying in the sky are
beaten down by a heavy downpour of their clouds,
 
what does it mean when a spider starts 
to crawl up a huge wall, only for their sky
to gather its grief and wash down the spider?
 
When you take a walk into the thoughts 
of a random boy, you'll see it brimmed with grief, 
slumber, faded happiness, and 
 
he enclosing a butterfly of his dreams
in his palms without letting loose, but here 
in reality, it is long lost like his mother 
who couldn't out-pace the bullets of a policeman.
 
Here in my country, you become a god when 
the law becomes your kitty even if the lightening 
doesn't traverse through your body.
 
Somewhere in my country, houses are 
garlanded by explosion, even the newspaper carries
another headline of loss, another headline of the 
relics of ruin.
 
The same prayer that grew with my grandmother
when her tiny feet bloomed to puberty,
to becoming a guest of the Grim Reaper
 
The same prayer is stuck to my tongue,
but thicker and now it tastes like a mud water.
 
 
 
 
Maracas
 
Played in pairs
as the pebbles pat
the inner walls of our bodies.
 
Crafting a rhythm,
o, together
our rhythm sounds stronger.
 
You at the right hand,
me at the left hand
or either—
we rattle 
rattle  
rattle
 
We wear the same garment
on our slender body,
& coincide the same sound,
& bodies surmount to our rhythm.
 
The ears lose their taste 
of the sounds when we separate,
when one of us break—
The other breaks rhythmically.
 
 
 

Abdulkareem Abdulkareem is a Nigerian writer, linguist, who wants his voice to go beyond the thatched roof of his mother’s house. He studies Linguistics and Nigerian Languages at the University of Ilorin, Ilorin, Nigeria. Besides writing poetry, he cherishes the historical fiction and crime fiction genres. His friends calls him Pānini. He writes from the ancient city of Ilorin. When he isn’t writing, he’s either listening to JuiceWRLD or Drake. His works have appeared on Poetrykit online anthology, ARTmosterrific, Naija Buffett Readers, The Kalahari Review, and The Shallow Tales Review,. Nnoko stories, Nanty greens