Tell me about…

I know of the story
the same one my father told me.
the one from the rivers of blue
the one from the kwararaffa.
I still don’t know if the spelling feels correct
I mean the k feels like we are knives
made in history to cut the ties of enemies
to cut the families dipped in blood.
I remember the tales of black colour,
of ‘adire’ that is a mixture of our skin,
the same one that makes the sky blue,
the same one that colours water.
I remember these tales of my father,
what becomes of this bloke.
This ankwai man from Shendam.

Ruddapoet