EXODUS OF A BOY (OF MANHOOD)

“how does a body run from its plight?”
a b-r-o-k-e-n boy [shouldered by grief] tells a 
story: he begins by cracking an egg only to find 
tears whispering through the yoke. then a lily 
sprouts, blossoming the shards of his shell. 

hey boy, 
to drink water during drought, fill the orifices 
in your body with fireflies. squeeze light into 
your skin. uncover aridness & you'll see a pool 
of red, drink to your fullness. wash yourself in 
blood—losing your virginity/a call on manhood. 

so, is this how to euphemize growth, by wearing 
your shadow on the tongue of a gaping casket, &
leaving your body in the wilderness, to flourish? 
a boy’s body is an earthquake the moment he tries
to run from himself. well, we’re stones, aren’t we? 

of what color is love? say, the fragments of blood. 
we unbury our plights when we identify this color, 
whenever a caged bird flaps its wings. an angel 
metaphors reincarnation into flesh, & when this 
miracle is born, boys would become men. Amen. 



LEVIT A CURSE OR LEVITICUS

I refuse to call my body the temple of god 
because I’ve tattooed unrighteousness on my
sternum, breathing whatever utters softness to 

my skin. god, who is holy, asks me too, of
holiness: I reply in sheer hollowness. I’m
becoming a shadow—a piece of darkness. 

I tell you this today, when you listen 
to the clarion of a tornado, a knife un-
winds your voice; you call on god &

an echo cuts through, you become a voice-
mail of pain. you force out a psalm of mercy 
from your larynx & it perishes on your tongue. 

you made a poison out of life by calling life 
a poison; you push yourself to a cliff, to die, but
now, you live in darkness & darkness lives in you. 



NUMBERS OF UNRIGHTEOUSNESS
after Hosanna by Emmanuel Mgbabor

i.	My body is a wilderness of sand 
dunes— I ripple sins in ridges,

ii.	attached a wing to my scapula; 
hoping to become an angel,

iii.	fastened a trumpet to my throat, to
chorus confessions in fitful hymns, 

iv.	built a church in my cervix. I'm heavy 
with war-ships/bloody praises. 

v.	Where can a demon find holiness if 
not in the temple of pure filthiness? 

vi.	my voice is now a reflection of dark-
ness, I carry mishaps in     e c h o e s. 

vii.	For seven days, I fasted, so as to 
become holy, to resemble light. 

viii.	Here, I made a flute of my trachea, 
a harp of my broken phalanges, 

ix.	I try to refrain myself from impurities, 
from feeding my iniquities. 

x.	In this poem, I count my unrighteousness
as I try to wear repentance. 

Writer’s Bio

Ayoade Olamide, NGP 1, is the author of “Poets Don’t Sleep”, an ardent lover of music, a song writer and a preacher of poetry. He is the second place winner of BKPW (2021 October Edition). His works have appeared/ are forthcoming in the Academy of the Heart and Mind, Ariel Chart, Write the World, WattNigeria, Woven Poetry, Bansi/Demigods anthology & elsewhere. He tweets @penbleeds and can be found on Instagram @_penbleeds