A poets message to the igbo's 4 market days

EKE

My Grandmother always spoke of how her chi left her lonely
singing sad songs about gods who disguised themselves as men.

my god, what gods?

she held them by the tongue and dragged them through the market place
her body aching with undefeated body parts
She whistled her victory into the night.
the next morning we found her dead

ORIE

Our bodies are already filled with open festering sores
our mouths filled with silence, trying hard to swallow other peoples misery
Do not waste your words trying to shove every idea of god down my throat
Swallow
Binge
Throw up
Rinse
Repeat.
We are sick to death.

AFOR

We still know nothing.
We are tired of asking our mothers why they want us to faith?
We are living testimonies of prayers answered.
but we still know nothing.
which of the gods answered?

NKWO

We have survived an invasion of hungry mouths.
We found a way to teach each other Joy.
We found a way to bleed and not die.
We know the color of grief.
We have discovered ways to make madness appear normal.
We found a way to be
more deliberate, more potent, more present

do we scare you?

my god, i ask again what god?