Let me tell you
Of Oníkòyí;
One whose mind bleeds,
Whose heart pants,
Whose ink spills,
Like a fresh cut,
Like the feet of a cheetah,
Like beer from a King’s stupor.

Should I breastfeed your mind
With his royal pedigree?

Let me spoon your ears
With his celestial eulogy.

Oníkòyí Òrò!
Your words are like friction
Between day and night.
Their quiet noise ding dong
Like the King’s gong.

They rend the hearts
Of our enemies
And mend our pieces
When we are shattered.
Can the King’s eyes slumber
Without your command?

Oníkòyí Òrò,
Even, the maidens
Do not pamper you
For the sake of the gods;
They want to lay your bed
And suck your words’ nipples!

Think of it, Oníkòyí,
I befit your bed of words.
Make me your rhythm!
So, I can have a taste
Of their beauties
When we take that celestial journey.

I pray you,
Make me your rhythm,
Oníkòyí Òrò!

©Olaitan Maryam Mojisola

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