The farewell of the khaki is a fair
thunderstorm that exhume the coward's corpse, swooping it high up,
flinging debris in the sky like kites,
which fly, swoop and perch on
the hearts of friends and families.
Yet, it comes with no rain but noises
that burst the taps of wife's eyes
and unfairly dig the well of fear
in the heart of the poor son of the sun.

So let me say a quick bye bye for, now,
I'm leaving for a place whose peace is war,
Our foods are bullets and
our drinks are tear gas canisters.
Our hot teas is the tears of opponent
and our music is their painful screams;
It's a do or die, if we don't prey fast,
Our hands can be their food and
our hearts and lungs their baked junks.

So whoever returns home comes
as a grass cutter willfully released
by the merciful hunter:
a rare privilege of the underworld.

If I'll be back to bath your forehead
with my joyful tears,
If I'll come back to hold you
with my brittle hands,
Then, we'll have more fair water to drink
from the fear well of more farewells.

Ayeyemi Taofeek Kehinde
©ASWAGAAWY
the toothpick that walks like a man