Grey fog covers the city like a blanket of cobwebs as our eyes smart from the merciless harmattan breeze. Our wings are spread in unnerving calm and our mind floats above the rancour of the mundane. We are on the journey, again, to where we live, in the noise of ourself; in the despair that is our recess; in the nullity of life’s smelling secret.
Death has broken Ákòbí’s bed. She has left a gulf in the place where she laid, with the false promise of wonder bread in the darkness between her legs. She has blown out the candle of affection and has cast a blistering shadow on the contract of eternal bond sworn before the Almighty. There is a war brewing, and the casualties are innocent. Beady-eyed and ignorant, they have been thrust into a field of barbed utterances, under the deluge of regretful actions.
Our wings flutter desperately, clinging to a sliver of hope that the ethereal beams, bursting above these hovering clouds, will soon break through and expose this death for what she is.
Ìkéji has towering dreams, they inhabit realms the strongest of minds hesitate to reach. They are untethered, however, rootless and soon lost like a runaway kite.
We worry for ìkéji; for the manic riot unraveling between their ears; for the exploding desires reverberating in their chest; for the ashes of evanescent fires lingering on their (ever) dancing tongue.
Our wings embrace the familiar; the comforting thermal that pull us to the piece of reprobate, where we bloom under Heaven’s distaste.
There is no more fight left in us; no effervescence; no flicker of longing; no will.
There is only the beckon of sin and the release we have found in the shadow of the rainbow.
The rainbow we have stopped to loathe?