Etymology of Bombs by Adedimeji Quayyim Abdul-Hafeez

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

mournings.


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.

Etymology of Bombs by Adedimeji Quayyim Abdul-Hafeez

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

our prayers.


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 quayyimadedimeji@gmail.com and directs the Ministry of Flex, Vibes and Creativity on Twitter @quayyimbakr


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Writer, editor and reader. A student of mathematics and physics, Twitter troll, Facebook comedian and human.

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