Waxwing Literary Journal: American writers & international voices.

Àfòmá

Hussain Ahmed

òṣùpá ni awọn ìyẹ́ to pamọ

o fi ara jo oju ọrun,

iyè na tèka, ni ìjùwè pè òjò onipè rọ.

bi òjù ọ̀run sè dúdú si

awa na kó orin kikọ́

pẹlu awọn ahọn wa tì orùn fun òdòdó igi ọpọtọ.

àwọn ọmọ obinrin tènu má ibèèrè fun ìbọn,

lati dàrà pọ mọ awọn ajagun. wọn fè pà ina ija,

ṣíbẹ̀, awọn ọbẹ̀ ti pé nìnù ilè amọ ni wọn gbẹ fun wọn,

wọn ko gbẹ̣ri wọn jẹ, ìfọkàntán wọn si dóògun.

òṣùpá ma’n mọlẹ ju ni ìgbà ìhàmọ,

ṣùgbọ́n èwọ ni làti kà ìwé akọ ranṣẹ̀ olólùfẹ́ ni abẹ imàlè na.

Marsi ni ju òṣùpá kan lọ, ko sì nkan to sọnu nìnù rẹ ri.

pupa ara rẹ si gbè ojìjì awọn ẹyẹ ti ofò nìnu rẹ pamọ.

pẹlú ẹ̀wà erupẹ ti igi wu jàde ninu rẹ,

mo ṣewadii ayé tuntun, ni ifọkan tẹ fun àwọn nkan ti ko ni sẹmi lèyin mi.

ọpọlọ mi ma’n sè akoso ìná, tì osi tan ìmàlẹ si gbògbò àrà mi,

àwọn ẹran odò n’bẹ nìnù ìkun mi, ti rogodo àrà wọn tọka ìsẹmi mi.

àwọn isan ọwọ mi da gẹgẹ bi ìtàkun ẹ̀ro, ti àwọn lèkèlèkè ba si ori rẹ,

ẹyẹ mọn pọ si nìigba ogun, gbogbo èso mangoro ẹhinkùlè wa ni wọn je tan.

kosi àsìkò lati gún àwọn ìgì lẹhin ìsìnkú,

yàtọ̀ sí ti aba fè nàgà wo ìbi iná sún mó ilé wa si.

àwọn ẹyẹ dirọ́ mọn okun, ni ásìkò afẹ́fẹ́. Oyá mi lẹnu,

oru mẹlo ni àwọn ẹyẹ yi fì sè irin ajo, sè wọn padanu iye.

àwọn ẹyẹ pọ loju ọrun lásiko ogun,

wọn jẹ nìnù àwọn èso to ti jera, bayi ni wọn sè fi ẹnu wọn yi ẹ̀jẹ̀.

èmi àwọn oku wa ti tẹdo si ìnu àwọn ẹyẹ na,

wọn si hun àwọn ọrọ nipa iranti ayè wọn, si ìbì ti ọwọ́ wa kò tó.

Epiphyte

translated by Hussain Ahmed

The moon had invisible wings

that matched the sky,

it is outstretched, so I know it will rain soon.

As it gets darker,

we learn to sing

with tongues that scent of blooming figs.

The girls continued to ask for guns

so, they could join the war. They want to bring the fire to a quench.

Instead, they were handed knives long buried in clay,

they were only trusted with rust.

The moon shines brightest during the curfew,

but it’s a taboo to read a lover’s note under its reflection.

Mars have more than one moon, nothing gets lost in it,

the red surface hides the shadows of the wandering birds.

Out of the pulchritude of the soil on which a tree could grow,

I seek a new planet – in dependence, for what may not survive a day without me.

My brain generates enough electricity to make my body trans – parent.

In my stomach are sea urchins, their spherical shells tell that I’m alive.

The veins in my arms are telephone wires, lined by crows.

Birds flourish during the war, they fed on the mangoes in the backyard.

There was no time after each burial – to climb the tree,

the only time we did, it was to see how close the fire was, to our house.

The birds held firm to the wires when the wind blows, i wondered

how many nights does it take them to arrive, do they lose feathers on their way here?

There are more birds on the sky during the war,

they fed on the rotten fruits and got their beaks stained in blood.

The ghost of our dead found home in the birds,

they’ll nest their memories where our hands would not reach.

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