When Man Plays god

Like light out of darkness,
So is Amoke’s child, Aduke.
Yorubas say, “àti inú ìkòkò dúdú la ti ń m’èko funfun”.
For èkó, yes.
But how can a yellow child fall off the uterus of a black woman?
Amoke’s teeth contrast a blood tinged gum.
Dark blood like one from ruptured veins.
No, that’s not the issue.

It is Akanni’s orò ìdílé. Akanni, Aduke’s father.
This child belongs in the bush.
The forest that is abode to darkness and its similitude.
The village priest would do the honour.
With back turned, he would cast away the spell.
The spell that was Aduke.

But under a mother’s watch?
Amoke’s larynx let out a screech.
It voices the burning of her breast.
The tears of her uterus.
The yearning of her back.
None of her members would allow.

So, there in the priest’s power house.
Soft mumblings call forth her senses.
There in an off-white linen is an emblem of beauty.
Brown eyes against clean yellow skin.
Tiny hands that pulled at the dirt-laden covering.
The sight, a seal on her intentions.
A risk for her first birth.
Her only birth.
An escape that preserved a life.
A beautiful life.
A beautiful child.

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