Broken
Zaria, Nigeria
2021, Senior, Poetry & Spoken Word
The blades of our rusted roofs sing us black water,
Clouds kiss with bursts of thunder and merges of sky eyes.
No reflection holds faces drenched in the profile of beige skies
Like pools of broken pottery sitting unhopeful.
Drunken shards and tears are words to this caged soil.
A cup a day, and there won’t be bent backs to draw water.
Maybe fate and lots are the beginnings of our thirst,
The utter cause for reasons wished to be understood,
Or the violence that sits as empty bowls in kitchens.
Why do clay jars gather the most breaks?
That hands live as the belly of a lizard?
A thousand drops in a year are all the hours needed
For heartbeats the Southern rains never played.
Birds won’t murmur as they wait a while,
Mangoes won’t fall with grace,
Life’s rhythm may whisper to the bones of its brothers
As our hands dig for mudded earth.
Reflection
Reflection
In 2017, our water pipelines were destroyed in a road construction project, and ever since, getting water has been a struggle. We still rely on rainwater and wells dug in our backyards, and they still prove inadequate. We have adapted to this change but the question that needs an answer is, "What about the others?" Many states in Nigeria face graver plights than we do: people battle for water like their own lives, kids miss school just to fill their buckets with muddy water, and only few people have offered help. Each day, lakes are getting dryer, rain is depleting, drought is creeping in, and cholera is spreading faster. I want to offer help, even through this piece and join those out there who campaign for better water supplies to people's homes.