—for Sarah Osawaru—

By Majekodunmi Oseriemen Ebhohon

Eh hen…
You say I raised dust
in the middle of a rainstorm?
Then your eyes must be washing plates
where your brain should be frying yam.

I danced.
Oooooh… yes, I danced.
In the rain.
With both legs.
And joy in all my joints.
Yet you say:
“She is stirring trouble!”

But let me ask you,
Can a snail carry fire on its back?
If your lips accuse thunder,
won’t your teeth be the first to scatter?

They say:
“Be like the river, quiet.”
But when I did not talk,
they said I was brooding
like a hen on stolen eggs.

They say:
“Be humble like dust.”
But when I bowed my head,
they called me a beggar
bending for leftover shame.

So now
I raise my head,
I raise my voice,
I raise my steps,
and they say the ground is trembling.

The heart that hates
will always see footprints
on clean stone.
Even silence is noise
to an envious ear.

Ah!
If a man walks backwards into a feast,
is it not because his face
has seen what his back has not?

Do you fear the whisperer who shouts?
Or the silent one whose laughter has teeth?

Let me tell you, my friend:
A lizard who falls from the Iroko tree and nods,
doesn’t wait for your applause.
He confirms his own survival.

I survived.
I rose.
I danced.
Rain or no rain.
And the mud?
The mud only massages those
who dare to walk.

Oh, I almost forgot…
You say I bring confusion?
But what do I say?
Salt looks like sugar
until it enters your sore.

You say I provoke envy?
What do I say?
Even the moon envies
the madness of the firefly.

Do not measure my laughter by your wounds.
Do not gauge my rain by your umbrella.
Do not time my thunder with your cracked watch.

Because I will still dance.
Even if it rains knives,
I will still dance.
Even if you swear
that the rainbow is a trap,
I will still dance
and dance
and dance

And if dust rises again
during a downpour
maybe the gods are clapping.
maybe the gods are entertained.

Or maybe,
just maybe,
I no longer walk on earth.