Can an African poet write about napping with the TV on? Can I entertain the lull of the afternoon drive home, or must my words reach the ends of a sunlit plain, where wild beasts roar into a golden sky? The truth is, I am a poet and I am African, and so I write as I am.
my father died bending like a dog under the November cloud unlike the stories we were told about grief as
In sooth, I know not why I am so sad, It wearies me, you say it wearies you. But how
[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/AyandeleHome.mp3″] If your borders could talk, they would tell you the meaning of chasing home: distance is a figurine
[audioplayer file=”https://admin.rattle.com/audio/AgbaakinDavid.mp3″] ekùn, økø òkè—tiger, the mountain’s groom —from Yoruba the boy with the crow skin comes from a long