I still recollect how papa yells your name when he returns from farm, 
& mama's voice still hangs like bangs from your devotional bell hymns 
upon the eyebrows of my ears. we do not have a television, 
but papa was glad when your 
name was flung across the speakers of our radio
–we thought you won a scholarship–
the radio talked in English. but later in the night, 
someone came with a paper that dropped your names across its bodies, 
and bones and tiny human flesh to make some spectacle. 
mama called everyone and displayed it to their 
eyes, I saw the good tides in her eyes until someone came
–a villager from Lagos–
and read the words that mentioned a fire and your body 
into our ears. mama turned to the flash of her torch 
& papa whispered the song he sang on his father's funeral. You should 
see the waters that left his eyes; mama's was a stream
–of unconsciousness. 

papa never stops to yell your name every dawn, 
& mama never sends another person on errand, I am now Deborah
–your incarnation. 
but I cannot kiss the head of your papa when he is sad, 
& I do not know what befalls mama if she ever grows old of her thaumaturgy,
cause I am not Debo..! 

mama still asks me of the America you promised, 
should I tell her it is where you are. 
& I hope you send down your siblings from heaven, 
to console your untimely birth.

Poet’s Biography: 

Ayòdéjì Israel is a student at the University of Ibadan, Ibadan. He hails from Abeokuta in Nigeria. He is known for being a poet, writer, a political activist, and many other things, and he is 21 years old. One of his poems is forthcoming on Kreative Diadem Magazine.