image
And he was done
And yes, he was going to let it burn.
He was done
pretending everything was fine
He was done
putting up memes
That he didn’t define
He was done looking like he stuck to principles
His inner core defied
He was done with this image of perfection
People had of him
He was taking off the halo from off his head
Because he knew that,
That mental picture was just a den
And he was no angel.
They’d set that public-image-colouration-page
It was a maximum security cage.
And for years he doubted if he had grown at all
For all he had done was to repaint
The hues of that mental image
They all had of him
And for him.
He was removing the flaps
And untangling himself from that spider web.
What they thought
Had mattered so much
All it had caused him was distress.
And for years
He’d try to repress
The eruption of internal content
Who so clearly wanted to express
And redress
The unsavoury gift of respect
That caused him regrets.
For years he’d always thank God
For cancelled meetings
And lazy lecturers.
His commendable punctuality
Were the results of 5 minutes of running legs
And the ability of bike men
To move with maximum skill and dexterity
To his place of meeting.
He struggled with lust
And so what?
All his life
He’d been the preacher of holiness
Purity and sanctity
But when you come to the University
It seems your eyes see
And the beams lift from
The rim of your eyelids
And yes
he’d always condemned
“Fuck boys”
But from Rose to Regina,
From Tolu to Tosin,
He’d explored all 360 degrees
Acute and obtuse angles
And irregular lines
Of their magnetic bodies
In his mind.
And yes,
He wanted to tell someone
He was busy but not building
Occupied but not satisfied
His objectives never stratified
Often in a lot of things engaged
But that aspect of his life was in total disarray
People described him as efficient
But he knew, he knew not
What effective was.
So, to hell with their colourations!
To hell with their thoughts
To 6 feet under the ground with their perfect image of him
To Kirikiri with these bonds
They entangled him with.
He wasn’t going to boil bad blood
Neither would he be like Bad Moms
He needed help and he was going to get it.
He was going to open up this
Throng of twisted knots
In his inside
To an accountability partner
Who could help.
He couldn’t die inside anymore
He didn’t care about their small talk
He was done.
By Precious Oluwadahunsi.
