IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE

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The cologne in the rooms-
Nowhere to be found.
The curtains used on our windows
Are soaked in the blood
Of mediocrity.

The fruits in our garden-
Harvested by unknown hands.
Our old standing fan has been
Made to sit by the hands of time.

Our wrappers-
We’ve tied them to our waists;
Our shoes-
We’ve tied them to our feet,
Because of the rainy days.

Our infants are made to weep
Behind our rusty toilets,
By Mama’s long stick.
Our elders are locked up
In Papa’s deep hole.

We’ve witnessed many
Unsuccessful renovations,
Yet we’ve not lost
Our most motivations.

Our eyes can no longer see the sun
Because our leaky roof
Has covered our small heads.

Our stomachs can no longer roar for food,
Because between every room
Is a cracked wall- they are hungry too.


Written by Jacob Temidayo
https://mayorjake.wordpress.com


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