“Paradise of Poverty” by Olayioye Paul Bamidele
Olayioye Paul Bamidele is a writer, photographer, and student of mass communication. He's also an actor and a Christian. His works are forthcoming in Spillword, Lunaris, Artlounge, Ice Floe, Ninshar Art, Kissin Dynamite, Kreative Diadem, and elsewhere.
Author Foreword:
This poem is a direct inspiration from the society I found myself in — Nigeria. The corruption and the lack of morals are falling day by day. Even in religion, the result of corruption is evident. Pastors sleep with members, and members pray for internal ruins to repair themselves. Lack of knowledge causes all this.
You can tell: the poplars, shredding their leaves.
Fruits, unstitching their stems to the floor.
Perhaps to seek freedom. In this paradise,
everyone —everything— wants to be alone,
independent. Here, I watch
families like shrapnels, shred
themselves. If lack of knowledge is the only reason
my people perish, then this world is a congress
of ruins; litanies, falling to ashes, where only
a few minutes it's flirting in glowing. I don't know
how to wax poetic: to say poverty crawls into the
city like lice into unwashed hairs, & chew
everything that stalks wealth. Moths on new white linen.
Look at it: the televised
image of our government, gobbling economic
resources. They open their mouths on
the dais and a cyclone belch out
lies, corruption and lusting flies.
I wonder — how long are we going to
continue inhaling their breath? How long
Will we allow them to spin us senseless,
filching even the wildflowers in our hands?
We are in the Paradise of Poverty, famine
transfiguring our Eden to deserts. Our hands
stiff from reaching the middle tree fruit. Our hands, tremble
from threatening words 'do not eat or you will die'; arrow at us.
Arrow at the candlelight, burning hope in the dark.
