Sunday T. Saheed
Escapade
I do remember, they said I came to
this world through the backyard. Mother
says she doesn’t know what I run from —
the portico is full of acacias, oleanders
& quinces & whatever else pricks.
Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much I
walk the gethsemane miles after miles,
my shoes are dust-free. & for my lips,
oily. Not wilted like a strand of cactuses
at harmattan.
Every time father sits out on the pavement,
his shirt on his shoulder & a radio crackles
into his padded ears.
I watch him from the rear, & a smile forces its
way through my lips at a snail’s pace.
There is no dead thing here, Bàbá
apart from the vegetable on my tongue.
Magnolia flowers blossom here, a pathway
breaths. Perhaps, we might serve our cheeky
bones to old age —not to our pains.
Grab the camera, take this shot of me sipping
rum & not blood. My lips are clean & pale.
Dab the photograph into sepia or grayscale
of other’s fiery tongues.
Tonight, I’m looking into the mirror
to check what sprouts in my reflection.
A black boy, with tribal marks, with purple
shorts. Or a monster, blood in mouth who
escaped destiny & cheated fate!
this world through the backyard. Mother
says she doesn’t know what I run from —
the portico is full of acacias, oleanders
& quinces & whatever else pricks.
Sometimes, it doesn’t matter how much I
walk the gethsemane miles after miles,
my shoes are dust-free. & for my lips,
oily. Not wilted like a strand of cactuses
at harmattan.
Every time father sits out on the pavement,
his shirt on his shoulder & a radio crackles
into his padded ears.
I watch him from the rear, & a smile forces its
way through my lips at a snail’s pace.
There is no dead thing here, Bàbá
apart from the vegetable on my tongue.
Magnolia flowers blossom here, a pathway
breaths. Perhaps, we might serve our cheeky
bones to old age —not to our pains.
Grab the camera, take this shot of me sipping
rum & not blood. My lips are clean & pale.
Dab the photograph into sepia or grayscale
of other’s fiery tongues.
Tonight, I’m looking into the mirror
to check what sprouts in my reflection.
A black boy, with tribal marks, with purple
shorts. Or a monster, blood in mouth who
escaped destiny & cheated fate!
Biography
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Sunday T. Saheed is a 17-year-old Nigerian writer and a member of Hilltop Creative Arts Foundation. He was the 1st runner-up for the Nigeria Prize for Teen Authors, 2021. He was also a finalist for the Wole Soyinka International Cultural Exchange, 2018. His works have appeared or are forthcoming on Augment Review, Rigorous Mag, Trouvaille Review, Giallo Lit, Gyroscope Review, Cruzfolio, Kalahari Review, Open Leaf Press Review, Cajun Mutt Press, Applied Worldwide, Spirited Muse Press and others. He can be reached on Instagram on @poetsundaysaheed
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