The things we did in the dark Then and Now

The Things We Did in the Dark

JONATHAN UKAH

Our teeth clattered in the candlelight Where we sat huddled in my mother’s kitchen, We played with the splinters, the embers And pelted our feet into each other’s thighs, Our blood warmed by our co-joined hands As we wrapped ourselves with the night’s shawl.

Then a silhouette crept in and whispered to us with a spine-chilling, and blood-curdling voice, Like the spooky razzle of Medusa’s hair Hanging on the bloody shield of Athena, Unwinding the innocence that held us together And unwrapping the veil that held us hostage.

We turned to face each other with inspired horror, Like children learning to milk a reluctant cow With faces marred by the shape of the night; Subdued by the blunt and eerie silence, We did not know when we shot the shuttlecock, Grimacing in grief after our first kiss.

Jonathan Ukah is a graduate of English and German Law living in England. His poems have appeared in various literary publications and anthologies.

Then and Now

JONATHAN UKAH

I grew up surrounded by mosquito nets, Which my father was able to afford, When my eldest sister married a slender man, Who was not too thin to clothe us in gauze, Chest-baring, teeth-clenching, waist-bending, To empty his hidden pockets in my shaking palms; My mother’s voice rose above the din Of the rain pattering our roof like bullets, And the droning party of mosquitoes halted My mother’s swarm of joy at a bit of mercy. It was a miracle I had malaria once a season, Feasted upon like bees to a honeycomb, or voracious vultures on a chicken carcass; When mosquitoes feasted on my bloody skin, Grinding it to blood, sick and wounded, And the fires of Harmattan silence mosquitoes. I had a respite from their bitter battle, sucking glee, Though my skin turned itchy, twitchy, and cracked, My blood chilled by the blizzard of the Sahara. I grew up knowing the putrid back of a house, Where dirt straddled the shabby neighbourhood, And wide gullies carved unassailable chasms; Where memory and dreams stopped, halted, Between noise percussion and forlorn resignation; Where pain, a sweet needle, came like sleep, Drowning my cries and screams of agony. Now I know miracles of comfort and relief Since I can hear the birds singing, A scratch of a wing falling on the ground, A rustle of flowers, the crack of a bone, Through the din of these meteoric objects That whizz past my house every second; Imperfect as I am, a dreamer to the bone, I shall sing of miracles and the coming time, When mosquitoes will no longer scratch us, And our blood will not spill in vain But pumps up strength for fresh tomorrow.