Ajiun and I share a secret
I held my jiggly breasts in secrecy
Swore my tongue to the gods;
“if I show the village what she showed me
Smite me, fry me”.
Her banks burst with face water like an open being refilled,
Her composed building shattered like a child being revealed,
That one time for the first time, since we held hands under the tree I saw her indeed.
She said ”mó tî tè!
oun ówò mî o to, mo tî fî góngó fa”
We buried her last week.
I am not saying here is what she did,
I am cutting for what she didn’t,
Things she forgot,
How it wasn’t engraved on her forehead.
She bit a mango from the apple tree.
Lakunle Made her a woman,
Before the village named her a woman.
Ajiun never did any wrong,
She only wanted to love the man she loved,
But the shame got to her,
The grave called for her.
The wagging tongues came for her funeral,
Their siren sounds intensified the fog,
“She was such a kind child”, they said,
Shared heartfelt stories of the times they shared.
They didn’t even know her last name,
Nor her favourite route to ply to the market,
They didn’t know her,
They are best friends at her funeral.
