Wish Me Well. Poem by Israel Akinbode

Tell my mother that am gone,
Tell her with cold words how the hot earth
Peeled my soles with dirty knives.
Tell her, she needs to know.

The hot earth cooked my eggs,
Eggs to be hatched,
What will the future be like?
All future chicks have been cooked.

Men chopped off a whole day,
From the Almighty's creation allowance.
I should have known this,
'Walking gods' are so wicked.

Tell mother that am gone,
To live among ants called soldiers,
They stung envy and hatred to death,
That they did a long time ago.

Tell mother that am gone,
I wrote a letter to the parrots,
Though I will learn to talk,
But only the things that are true.

Tell mother that am gone,
The doves still have empty rooms,
Peaceful rooms!
I won't hear the cries from guns.

Tell my mother that am gone,
Away from a boiling earth,
Away from cruel men.
Wish me well.

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