A Country of Worn-out Women
by DIPE JOLA
This poem starts with a name cold with memories.
This poem is a mouth filled with birds. This poem is
Amina from the north shedding off her hijab to fit into
the society’s eyes. This poem is a tongue. This poem is
the origin of liberation. This poem is Uwa breathed from
earth and planted back into earth. This poem is her mother’s
voice and a long line of sorrow-eaten women. This poem is a
tongue made from battles. This poem is Barakat erased from dawn
and sculpted into moonless nights. This poem is a jug of keys.
This poem is our mother’s silence, our sister’s constant sinking
in a room filled with lights. This poem is the thick thighs
of a girl swinging to afro-juju on a friday night. This poem
is her Uber driver’s voice overpowering hers. This poem is
a catalog of bruises. This poem is lust and unconsented de-
sires. This poem is skinny and plump, white and black.
This poem is hairy as the woman whose husband bruised
her neck red— a subtle form of blood bath. This poem is
cold from innocence and a child’s teeth. This poem is blue
like those boys with Avengers on their tongues, not ready
for life but chopped off early. This poem is you walking
through a country of worn-out women silently whispering
savior. savior. come now
by DIPE JOLA
This poem starts with a name cold with memories.
This poem is a mouth filled with birds. This poem is
Amina from the north shedding off her hijab to fit into
the society’s eyes. This poem is a tongue. This poem is
the origin of liberation. This poem is Uwa breathed from
earth and planted back into earth. This poem is her mother’s
voice and a long line of sorrow-eaten women. This poem is a
tongue made from battles. This poem is Barakat erased from dawn
and sculpted into moonless nights. This poem is a jug of keys.
This poem is our mother’s silence, our sister’s constant sinking
in a room filled with lights. This poem is the thick thighs
of a girl swinging to afro-juju on a friday night. This poem
is her Uber driver’s voice overpowering hers. This poem is
a catalog of bruises. This poem is lust and unconsented de-
sires. This poem is skinny and plump, white and black.
This poem is hairy as the woman whose husband bruised
her neck red— a subtle form of blood bath. This poem is
cold from innocence and a child’s teeth. This poem is blue
like those boys with Avengers on their tongues, not ready
for life but chopped off early. This poem is you walking
through a country of worn-out women silently whispering
savior. savior. come now
Dipe Jola is a poet from Lagos. She won the prize of the first runner up in Eriata Orihbabor Poetry Prize, 2018. Her works can be found on African Writer, Feral Poetry, Echelon Review, Kalahari Review, Kissing Dynamite, Turnpike Magazine, MOMENTO: an Anthology of Contemporary Nigerian Poetry (Animal Heart Press 2020), edited by Adedayo Agarau, Synchronized Chaos and elsewhere. She tweets @jola_ng