Everything Will Be Alright

My love, 

they say the clouds are gathering

for a protest and has said woe betide the

uncovered skulls caught in it.

The national grid has fallen on it knees again, 

in despair or supplication, 

I cannot tell.

So I light the scented candles we saved from our

last time together, 

to watch the shadows grow,

and think of you, and the last words you spoke.

You said the mad men have started again, 

and everyone watches with winter frosted 

glasses.

But darling, we are Aba-made;

like the tinker, 

we have learned to beat tin scraps into pans.

I’ll tie my wrapper tighter, plant ugu and 

cassava,

and tell the hungry ghosts to wait a minute.

My love is not a thing they’ll get their hands on.

I see the men at the newspaper stands,

the young ones salivating at the prospect

of witnessing history they only read about;

the old ones shaking their heads at them.

I write the rising prices as prompts 

for stories that will be told one day.

My blue jerrycan is reunited with its species 

And in my head, 

you’re laughing at the queue that stretches half 

a mile, 

and how the man behind me keeps praying to 

God and Dangote,

'Give us this day, our daily fuel.'

I hold my smile lest the man thinks I mock him.

So what if all our promises are wired

through a broken MTN network?

This love is a steady flowing stream ever sure 

of its pathway to the river.

It’s the iroko tree reaching for the sun and 

basking in its heat.

So when the sleepless night begins to stretch

and you can hear the worry in your chest,

remember my warmth and laughter.

I am not going anywhere.

Like market women wait for rain to pass until 

the coast is clear, 

I'll wait this out.

I’ll be right here. 

Mad men sworn to the holy books

may try to shrink the space where we can 

stand.

But my love, 

I’ll defy time and space without a pause,

to reach across and hold you, heart-to-hand.

We are the ones who know each other’s name.

We are the stubborn, and we will not bend.

So when you read this, know the scented 

candle’s lit,

I have said my prayers.

They say the rain is coming,

the forest will bloom,

the corn sellers are preparing their grills,

for there will be abundance once again.

And I am here, in every part of it,

a witness in soul and body.

I am the stubborn ground beneath your feet,

the thing that thrives where nothing’s 

guaranteed.

The war will end. 

The mad men will retreat.

And you’ll come home. 

And we will plant a seed.