A Dying Body Chronicles 25: To become a god's spittle

From the pantheon of African kings,
from the blood of ancient Ogodomigodo,

I arose, a twisted tree from that red mud,
crowned myself with thorns,

carried my cross & climbed
the slumbering hills of my lover's

geography of pain. I, a fallen seed
from the teeth of Kwale, where the iguana

is sacred did succumb to terror
within my malformed legs.

I crawled from my cubicle of life,
a small thing, to claim the tip of ecstacy

from my lover's tongue. Like a vagrant
without memory, I embraced

the white man's telling of my body
& wandered all the lies his broken wisdom

fed me. For a time, it was the wine of life
& I communed with his god of money

& blood. He had lied in my name,
so in anger, like a god I summoned

the ancient flood from inside my body
& picked two of a kind of each animal

that inhabited my bones. From the bowels
of the Atlantic, rejected from Olokun's

embrace, I arose, a deity, an abomination.
My name was stripped from the annals

because I chose to become
what my mother had moulded me to be

in the clay of her body. Now like Cain,
I bestride the earth, unsure of my father's

love, wise in the ways of human hate.
I have become a god's spittle;

lukewarm, I stand alone in the pantheon
of the abandoned, a deity.

I am black as my earth
& I too have worshipped the god

of my body. I have sinned & fallen short
of her glory but for the first time,

I know what it means to exist
outside these broken gods.

Is this not emancipation?
Is this not illumination?


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