Son of Gold

	After Àyìnlá Omowúrà

When thirsty, I have learned
to ignore the reflections in the water.

It was my turn to sit in the cold,
our neighborhood was under siege.

On such nights, I suspect every cat
meowing on the fence.

	From the radio, Àyìnlá spits out incantations that mimic the drums, and I become
	intoxicated. Every time he held the mic, the universe froze or became a square painting
	of yellow butterflies.

I sat in the audience, around a hundred and ten yards of red earth,
with boundary lines drawn with ashes, into a rectangle of a football field.

We are all made of the same red earth,
even those whose skin won’t break in harmattan.

	Asán danu lásán ni àrá tó sán nínú èrùn, this I have found to be true about the
 	American sky.

Nothing I own attracts lightning and Àyìnlá’s voice does not
strike the same part of your eardrums twice.

	        I am eligible for this joy,

I am eligible for the hypnosis of a magician who sings
of love and praise masquerades.

	        I wanted him to be on this stage for many more years, but the storm does not care
	        whether the fruits are ripe or not.

On the table beside the radio, there is a mosquito coil that resembles a maze,
it wards off the bugs until they get comfortable in its scent.

	Inside the bamboo bar where Àyìnlá will die, he orders a glass of wine,
	as if that would suppress the torrent that is to come.