#limpopo
I.
The twelfth moon has shown its snow-white teeth to bless the maiden toils of lovers. But here I am still groping, still hoping.
If only your coquettish smiles did not entrap. If only your flirting did not deceive. If only the diamonds in your eyes did not attract. If only the fires from them did not warm a cold hearth. If only your bright plumage did not raise a comb. If only the rules of your game were down to earth.
I’d not still be bending at your post, toiling, smothering the seeds of my feeling in the infertile soil of your heart. This twelfth moon, I’d not be at your post, waiting, hoping to harvest a leafy feeling planted eleven moons ago.
II.
If I had the wings of an eagle—broad, sun-drunk kings of the air—I would fly from the gilt of your snare. I would rise on the thermals and ride, over the Niger’s broad sweep, the Nile’s patient creep. I would trace the Limpopo’s curve, the Zambezi’s deep sigh, and touch the cold gems of a sky denied.
I would flee you over the Mediterranean’s blue hymn, the Red Sea’s narrow limb, across the Atlantic’s gray skin, the Pacific’s beginning, the Indian Ocean’s warm rim. I would let the Victoria’s thunder cleanse me of wonder, and wrap my bare soul in the sky’s black velvet whole.
If I had the wings of a dove—a soft, pleading prayer— I would fly to find peace from your care, and free myself, there.
But why... Why plot the flight? Why chart the path and the star? When I know the true trap is the want—what we are. And my wings, unspread, would still bear me back, to lie broken and plead for your love.
III.
Why so cold, like soup abandoned in an aluminum *** Why so deaf, like the boulders of Ikare, silent sentinels to whispered winds? Why so unfeeling, like the scorching breath of the Sahara, stinging skin with its relentless touch? Why so unyielding, like the ancient ***** of the iroko tree, rooted deep in the earth’s resolve?
You, who once danced with the grace of a gazelle, why have you transformed, into the slick arrogance of a serpent, coiled in conceit, hiding your beauty beneath poisonous scales?
IV.
See what you have remoulded me to: a mere rhymer of love-worn rhymes. I have sacrificed the vibrancy of my art— its loud voice, its powerful lines, its poignant rhythms, its conscious themes— upon the cold altar of your pride.
I have lost the biting stroke of my quill, tempered all my anger with love. And yet—are you so deaf,so callous, so utterly unfeeling? Will you not listen to my muted song, even in the glow of this twelfth moon?
V.
So self-centred, a cyclone of your own design— so sorrow-striking, the earthquake of your disregard. Your inconsideration burns with a wildfire’s indiscriminate rage. Your coldness is a creeping pneumonia, a chill that stifles the very breath of us.
If Eve had been but half as cold to Adam, the world would stand empty, unpopulated by their love.
The twelfth moon is upon us. Its light asks the question: When will you turn a new leaf?
VI.
Moon, You sit up there,smiling. But why is your smile so bright today? Is it to mock my going home downcast, a knight vanquished in the duel?
Go on, then. Bare your silvery teeth. Mock my dropping head, and my broken sword. Mock my shredded sheath, and my splintered shield. Mock the wound I took in that foolish combat.
Mock my manly quality, proven so unmanly in defeat. Go on, mock this poor quality, too little to even fill the thimble of a junior Eve.
VII.
And you too, O twelfth moon— you,sniggering at me! You,chorusing with your eleven sisters to mock my misfortune.
And you too, O twelfth moon— you,withholding your pity. You, joining their celestial dance upon my failure.
And you too, O twelfth moon— laughing at my folly. You,waltzing with her in cold glee because I mistook these glazed leads for diamonds.
And you too, O twelfth moon
VIII.
Obatala,
you are a failed artist.
Your art is not inspiring.
This one mistake you committed
has stripped the rhythm from your canvas.
Why did you paint
her head with this same barren sand—
the dust of an infertile heart?
Why not experiment
with fried cassava grains,
that they might swell and rise
with a receptive,trembling life?
Then the movement of your work would show
as I pour the hot water of my feeling on her head.
But the barren sand drinks my passion
and gives no sign.
Obatala,
bring yourself down from mountain Ife.
And learn a thing or two
from my mortal strokes
© Lanre Adebayo.
May 4
May 4, 2026 at 8:14 AM UTC
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Mar 29
Mar 29, 2026 at 10:55 PM UTC