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The Dining Table Dinner tonight comes with gun wounds. Our desert tongues lick the vegetable blood—the pepper strong enough to push scorpions up our heads. Guests look into the oceans of bowls as vegetables die on their tongues. The table that gathers us is an island where guerillas walk the land while crocodiles surf. Children from Alphabeta with empty palms dine with us; switchblades in their eyes, silence in their voices. When the playground is emptied of children’s toys who needs roadblocks? When the hour to drink from the cup of life ticks, cholera breaks its spell on cracked lips Under the spilt milk of the moon, I promise to be a revolutionary, but my Nile, even without tributaries comes lazy upon its own Nile. On this night reserved for lovers of fire, I’m full with the catch of gun wounds, and my boots have suddenly become too reluctant to walk me. — Gbanabom Hallowell
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this nigeria that is being spoken to.
Technically, the poem is not about Nigeria. It talks about the Sierra Leonean civil war that midwived a lot of traumatized child-soldiers. But then, I agree that the poem may have a level of universality to it.