SOUND OF GONG By Deji Adeoti

Written by Bada Yusuf Amoo

my song is a wave of waters

forth is the tone driving

I know, yes, I know

forth is the rhythm paddling

my song is tide of sages

ferrying to conflux of ages.



(for IDP Camp in Pleateau, 2017)

In this song I remember your tears

your cries that lies unburied in your heart.

Once upon our heart, we hut joy

once upon our land we bath in peace and sit

to watch the day writing farewell to the sun

once upon our cities the tree whistle to the song of the rain.


Now that the breath and length of our camp

is a hook of the vultures

having dinner on the dead and the dying,

when lateral lines of blood tint the wall.


In this note, I remember mothers robbed

with scars of tears with faces sprawled with dirge,

left with memories of motherhood,

photographs of christen

and bruise of bullets on their walls.


In this note I remember husbands

who watch their spam buries in the open earth;

I spray clay of dirge on eyes

of those wrapped in the attrition of the night.



(ode to death)


Our cloth is rived in the voices of bullet,

the crocodile in the dry river

crying for lightning and blank cloud,

nobody is crying for anyone

but everyone is weeping for himself.

Blood as libation

women wailing as sweet flame

children on the death roll

daybreaks with deathblow

newspapers sprawl with ikulic news

like shed leaves in the dry season.


Our memory is in the sea of sorrow

of threnody

of homeless orphans

of million widows whose dusk is a forgotten solace;

of bullets and bombs that struck homes, and

left it in empty cruse of joy.


About the author

Bada Yusuf Amoo