The Second Day: Oyin

Who am I?

 

The questions linger behind smiles of glorious moments, the I that

lies in the question asked, either quietly one to another, or loudly

in a crowded room to distinguish oneself.

 

Who am I?

 

Strutting on heels, or skipping in slips, whether my hair is well done

or the crest of my jacket is well sewn

Not in name, not in face.

 

The question lingers not because my hands are tiny in yours when you

ask me, not because my ears are larger against my face

Not in speech, not in singing

Not even when I strip naked to stare at my own reflection.

 

Who am i?

 

The question that would define the whys. The whys of why I cry at

weddings, and the wonderment of why I run from clowns and the

puzzlement of why I settle my jealousy with broken bottles.

 

The answer lies in the shattered ignorance of my romantic naïveté and

simmers on the pages that contain my written down plans for tomorrow.

Am I a seed, become a tree from the foundation of my parent’s madness

or am I the reality of the names they had blessed me with?

 

Who am I?

 

Am I  the honey in Oyinkansola,The crown of Oyinade, the merging of

sweetness in Oyindamola, or the gifts of Moyosore. Am I the wealth in

Mosunmola, The shedding of tears in Remilekun, the lack of suffering

in Morounudiya or just the glorified crown in Adeseye? Each name you

shall call and will identify me, one name with a different face, each

name is who I am, all of which make me who I am.

 

Let’s minus the red haired gaelic girl I wish I was, lets minus the

Cleopatra, the sultry eyes and seductive voice of Marilyn Monroe that

fills my dreams. I am neither the burnt brown of my skin that the sun

has kissed, neither am I the rest of café au lait that has been

protected by my somewhat disheveled clothing.

 

Am I the colours that swirl in my head? am I the present or my present

future? Am I my past, the 16 year old girl with intriguing dreams,

the 24 year old woman caught betwixt crying in frustration and

laughing in delight, or am I the 60 year old woman that lays afore

me, mug of scented tea in hand and a hoard of cats?

 

WHO AM I?

 

Talk to me, Please talk to me

The question has been set in stone and yet it cannot be

For even at the tail end of this piece, the answer eludes me.

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20 responses to “The Second Day: Oyin

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