Goodness Olanrewaju Ayoola | After the first case was confirmed in Abidjan | Poets Resist

Goodness Olanrewaju Ayoola is an award winning Nigerian poet and teacher of English. His poetry has appeared in Pangolin Review, Deepwater Literary Journal, Brittle Paper, Mojave Heart, Ethel Zine and elsewhere. He is a Best of the Net Award Nominee (Pangolin Review) and author of Meditations (WRR, 2016).

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Also by Goodness Olanrewaju Ayoola: Two Poems Wind My compound as a portraiture

Poets Resist
Edited by Alicia Cole
April 2, 2020

Goodness Olanrewaju Ayoola

After the first case was confirmed in Abidjan

What other language describes fear? On the street We stand to throw Bonjour by 1.5 meters margin. On the assembly, My pupils’ eyes grow curiosity: why Suddenly I am describing sneezing as a time bomb? Why I am Rearranging friendship into distance? A boy coughs, and I say, for example. We are closing for a month. I am in a crowded bus as usual, The restless awareness jumping from Every stare makes it feel Like somewhere I have never been before. (The masked faces Unveiling the sincerity that was never there; Unveils The hearts rising; the hearts drumming with fear) The night the first case of Corona was confirmed Here in Abidjan, conversations with my wife Become filled with chirping birds: we sing about Our open fears and when mother called, Her voice came with relief; like Shea butter That we all of a sudden become special, the world too. So strange the world is now listening. The problem is I panic too much that I lose my sleep. I tend my insomnia with Facebook watch: In China, a father, his five daughters crying around him, Like plagues are dragged into quarantine, Their squalls rip me into fragments. As for me, I cannot hold back my tears. I surf for roses on Google. I don’t want to imagine. I don’t want to Imagine this world swallowed up in despair; shrouded In premature silk of death. (When will this long night be over? So the sun will once again pull us home.) There won’t be church tomorrow. And today, when we gathered to pray briefly: A handful of us; Our Amens shook like trembling tendrils. I fear They’ll fade out before making it to God.

This poem is a personal report of the situation here in Abidjan, as well as, an identification with the world in this trying moment. Get well soon, world.