'Unkind Prophecies' by Kanyinsola Olorunnisola

Let me tell you something:

a few years from now,

you will wake up to find

the sun’s claws digging deep

beneath the volatile beauty of your skin,

water will flood your room

and fill it up so only your eyes could breathe.

The rain will sing dirges

with sorrowful muffled tones

and your ears will bleed

till an ocean of blood paints your home

the red palace of doom.

Grains of food will learn to walk

out of your house and surely,

today’s fat rats will become ancestors

to starved crawling skeletons.

Your step-mother’s fingers will be worn

from washing your dirty clothes

and she will say,

“it is time to learn to do things yourself.”

Your father’s farm will become

a murderer – death to all the crops!

Death to everything that dares spring up!

Death to them!

You will carry your kwashiokor belly

around the city begging for alms

while wearing your grandfather’s finest regalia.

Why?

Because you did not listen

when the black bird warned you,

“Choose the light, choose life,” it sang

Because you hissed when the media analyst warned you,

“Choose the light, choose life,” he preached,

Because you scoffed and spat when I warned you,

“Choose the light, choose life,” I begged.

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