Three Poems by Zaynab Iliyasu Bobi

Nigerian Hausa writer and artist Zaynab Iliyasu Bobi offers three formally inventive poems that yearn for a deeper sense of spirituality and security through ancestral connection, maternal figures, and cultural traditions and crafts.

To read further poetry and other genres of contemporary writing from across the African continent, check out our latest issue, Wasafiri 125.

Supported by a grant from the Open Society Foundations.

for what it’s worth,

'I stand very still so as not to startle the song in the branches.' — Leila Chatti

it’s true: the music      didn’t come     to me
by chance   i edge it       out of the throat
of our existence     from the clay    exulting
the knowledge    of the craftsmen   on the walls
& everything      made of earth     because     who exists
inside a word     a song like culture    & remains
lifeless of heritage       i’ve loved    the stories    i met
across the years       i've undone in the past     eras
after eras        like the peeling of oranges    the galloping
of dreams     made from the remnants of air —
the wind        as it spills        from the gongs   of
praise singers       who would have thought
that the way       to the spiritual realm      is to dance
to an enchanted rhythm       who holds to       the body
as a pathway      & music         as its noon
                                                   if not our ancestors?
for what it’s worth       it’s true      it’s true

it happened

here goes mystery: unhinged sonnet

inspired by Zeina Hashim Beck’s 'Standup Sonnet'

she used her little life to name the midnight song of the hummingbirds.
there is a need to remember how the birds sing because what remains
of this place is the mystery that replays nights & days. besides all that,
her skin feels the touch of all the men she has known — unknowingly.
& her father is a man stationed outside her mother’s body.
always too drunk to remember where the door is. & her mother
is a woman with a body that livestreams punches.

it’s a woman’s body that livestreams punches.
& her mother, always too drunk in love to remember where the door is.
always a man. her father stationed himself outside her mother’s body.
unknowingly, her skin, too, feels the touch of the men she knows.
this is the nightmare that relays itself days & nights in this place.
her wish is to remember how the birds sing to remain
the hummingbird that sings midnight songs for her little-dark life.

arrival

the rose heart     of my mother

i want    no          i need

my throat           bloated with cramps     tears

i     a believer

a believer    in what God         swears with

— time —             and its arrival

i am here      knocking open.

Cover image: Nigerian Made Mats, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons.