“Aṣọ fun fun lórí bẹ́ẹ̀dì,” My Dad said sleepily, yesterday morning, as I cast the makeshift duvet (what Nigerians call “cover cloth”) over him. I was lost in the thought of how his birthday morning sleep turned out disturbed when he asked me if I knew what that Yoruba sentence meant. I shook my head no.
Either that, or other insults like, “Fádá fadà, mọ́dá mọdà” (equivalent to the open, direct abuse Ìyá ẹ, Bàbá ẹ, that targeted another’s parents). He had no father to be insulted anyway. The Man Died, when his son was just ten.
I wondered what that felt like. Memories of previous hours floated before my mind’s eye. We’d prayed together at 12:00am. I was supposed to be praying but I could barely get the words past my throat from the myriad emotions that took me as I heard him recount God’s faithfulness.
I should…
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OSCARPOEMS 