Etymology of Bombs
It’s dawn again and the Muezzin slams
his voice against the tight walls guarding the
realms of my sleep. Then, firecrackers
make loud booms, decorating the sky with
the holes which the shrapnel dug with the
vicious claws of its teeth.
We scurry into hiding, again, clutching our
children to the whims of our breaths. Streaks
of blood blurs the emergence of the morning
as the clouds miff in anxious beats of our
This is how we start our mornings, clothed in
griefs of mothers shrieking in wailings
similar to the cries which they wove last
week, with mouths wriggled in the sorrows
which heighten the pains inflicted on our
spirits in heightened climaxes.
Our mornings shift, gleaming its lights into
our eyes. It only seeps the currents of our
pupils and weaves it into the darkness which
we see in the clouds of our sunsets.
The cries dry out as we carve out the graves
of our kindred with our fingers in collective
beats streaming through the cells of our
spirits, and we pray upon our dead in fears
knitted to the beams of our soul, hoping not
to join our dead folks during the course of
We retire, worn out from the cries our souls
had worn out into sonorous dirges. Then we
sigh at the strength of our hopelessness as
we peer through the holes in our skies.
This is our routine flaking through the
banners of our living. When they first brought
the crackers shipped from the anvils of devil,
we thought it was still the crackers
nourishing our battering souls into delight.
What we didn’t know is that delight stood at
the tip of our spirits, smithing our beings into
dimensions accustomed to pain.
They all rain from the trees, showering our
existence with the reflection of our tainted
facades. They shred our lips, leaving it
bathed in slimy colours which our blood
had morphed into.
This is our frequent ritual racing in
frequencies baking the roots of our
etymology. We turn to look at the Muezzin
as we hear the racing beats emitting from
the cages of his chest, afraid to call the
Isha’ prayer lest the firecrackers yank him
off the minaret.
About the author
Adedimeji Quayyim Abdul-Hafeez is a mad creative on the loose, interested in laws, media and communications, journalism and anything that knowledge could be found in. He views the world as a conglomerate of crumbling realities and is enamoured in how poetry embodies the hope of our collective humanity. He receives mails on firstname.lastname@example.org and directs the Ministry of Flex, Vibes and Creativity on Twitter @quayyimbakr