Pounded Yam - By Ifeanyi Michael Akuchie

I sit before a big ball
of whiteness.
I think
that my heart is white with purity,
it is red with blood,
tainted by the world...

I dig my hands
into the serving.
I take out a morsel,
a bolus;
I stare at it for a while...
years die as i stare.

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I dip it
into the bowl of black soup;
a dark jungle
where the meat of animals is present.
This yam,
the enlightened one,
goes in to teach the soup...


How to be wise
and how to die,
even if wisdom is applied,
this yam,
the invader,
it takes some soup with it...
with bones
and those chains.
They hurt like hell
hope has left them.
Even peace too.

And as I take in the mixture
a changed taste
fills my mouth
different from what I have known always.
And I swallow
years of existence;
an entire race is halved.

All in a night
the yam is the tool
of my satisfaction.
My hunger dies.
As I push the plates away,
they die too,
the children of the soup;
and I die too,
and I am buried.

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In the place of stolen fullness
forcefully extracted
from a bowl of dark soup,
change comes;
no longer the pounded yam.
This time,
I am the change;
the all and all.

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