'The Time I Met His Lover' by Safiya Olusike Salau is the best poem on the Internet right now

I dreamt a year ago that they came knocking on our door.

They dined with us and called us one of them.

I never felt so disowned by humanity in my life.

We were the few unbelievers hiding amongst believers. Mum said it was the safest place to be.

Dining was over, but I could tell they wanted more. Of something else.

My left fist twitched behind my back like it was suffocating in a convulsion.

Mum wrapped her cold palms around it. And it froze.

She whispered; look at their guns

So I did.

I studied every curve in the beauty, her openings, her lips, her two hands they held on to so tightly.

I studied the black beauty. The powerful hitter. I studied their lover.

So intensely that I didn’t see them taking my brother.

He didn’t resist, for if he broke through our blanket of pretense, we would all die.

I smiled at him, ‘nothing will change when you get back. Nothing. Go make us proud’

I watched them leave, chanting; ‘Kill the unbelievers!!’ until the night swallowed the last drop of blood they reeked of.

Licked its lips like the devil or my ex. Like my devil of an ex.

Watched as darkness digested them.

Yesterday I dreamt that my brother came knocking on our door.

He came with eyes heavy with blood of his victims.

He lost his way beneath pretense, he alone knew about our pretense.

I stopped mid hug, and cringed like a snail into a shell I didn’t have.

My mum, her warm hands touched my cold hands.

She whispered; look at his gun.

I rudely stared at his lover; her skin was smoother than the others, new, like a baby.

I wonder how much of the world she’s seen.

I stared and stared, but she was harder to understand.

What was her role in this relationship, did he even really adore her? Or condemn her when no one was watching. How abusive was he to her, or her to him?

I stared and stared at her mouth and wondered what she was capable of spitting.

Brother’s lover spat twice into mum’s chest. How rude.

Her warm hands dropped. My cold hands froze. As if death held my hands.

Brother screamed; this is Islam!

And his friends cheered behind him, raising their lovers so effortlessly by the waist. Then they continued their conversation about my weight loss and my mother’s weight gain.

I thought Islam said to lower your gaze.

By the time brother’s lover reached out to hit me, I saw the blood in his eyes sparkle like the fake blood he taught me and mum to make.

Yes. Before he was taken, he would put sacks on fake blood within one bullet proof jacket for me or my mum.

Mum let me wear it most of the time. It kept me warm. Left her cold.

Made whoever wore it look 10 pounds heavier.

Today, I was the cold one, the skinny one.

I dreamt he was coming, so I let her wear it.

I’m guessing a neighbour noticed we stopped performing our prayers and snitched.

Performing; acting; taking on the role of a character you can relate with.

You are related with.

Brother.

Brother volunteered to do the shooting on his own.

‘Nothing will change when you are gone. Nothing’. So we put the fake blood in the same spot and his lover hit the right spot

He was still there. Fake blood in his eyes. He could tell mine was real.

Love in his heart. He had saved one of us. He already knew which one.

Mum’s warm hands shook mine like they were suffocating in a convulsion.

My cold hands held on to death, with love.

I smiled.

His lover is filled with love.

Cums bullets that hit the spot like arrows from cupid.

I had one last thought: Do you ever think that there could be other little boys out there, with guns for lovers in their arms, but no one to shoot love for?

Then I fell asleep for real. Dreamt for real, for the first time in over a year.

Brother slept beside me, I think he kissed his lover goodnight.

Safiya Olusike Salau is currently an intern at Pulse.ng. She graduated from the African Leadership Academy, South Africa in 2014 and currently attends the African Leadership University, Mauritius. Through most of her teenage-hood, Safiya moved around the north of Nigeria and her urge to speak against social vices manifested in her poetry. She goes by the stage name “Ṣike” and performs spoken word poetry in hopes that she can connect with people to inspire or drive change.

In an attempt to push her poetry, she has just started up a YouTube channel! Nevertheless, Safiya’s dream is to improve and redefine communication in Africa because it drives understanding and tolerance.

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