DIVINE INYANG TITUS
the pyre and the people
from the corner of the block, death laughed at him
in old Ghoulish, the tongue Okonkwo heard
behind his barn, and rushed to purchase the rope.
consequence – the thing karma boasts to be –
stood in the shadow of the flame tree, sneered,
the man shuffled his feet, dithered among
the weeds, prayed in tongues his mother
bequeathed him, that the cup would pass over him
but the cup hath already runneth over
with an overabundance of salt,
the man was lugged away
by hands hungry and righteous,
faces wearing the scowl of God,
but he recognized one or two, and yes
the man who carried the lighter once
fucked a goat and his neighbor’s wife on the same day;
the other man would steal from God
& He would not even notice,
it will surprise you how much
we are surrounded by things that long to belch fire.
you never know how many fuels sprawl under languid sun
until a tyre materializes from the wind, and adorns
your neck like a pendant. and the whole world
comes to witness the sacrifice, because it is
a brilliant fable for justice: the man turns to one
and to another, abeg, abeg,
na just my pikin I wan feed, just my pikin,
how can people say walls have ears
when even men don’t? when women with sweet infants
tied to their backs spit into imminent flame
& hope it burgeons into a hell.
the man who wished to plead into the eyes
of the great Agape, broke like waves
on the dearth of the shore. why give love a name
if when you call it, by the agony of the lynch,
it will shrivel & hide, like a child caught in wrongdoing,
but, here’s a curious fact about
dying by fire: it purifies you before it takes you
but your arsonist will never be free of the ashes.
Divine Inyang Titus a past winner of the STCW Future Folklore Climate Fiction Contest, 2021 and author of the chapbook A Beautiful Place To Be Born. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Brittle Paper, The Parliament Literary Journal, The Hearth Mag, The Shallow Tales Review, and elsewhere. He tweets @bluetiphul.