The son of my mother is at it again
He says the Àgbàdà and Asọ-òfì weigh too heavy
& they are not modern
He feels comfortable when he wears the rope
He rejects the food he ate while growing up. 

He says the aroma makes him puke
The son of my mother now has allergy
To the foods that made him so strong
He now eats with a three-headed steel & a knife
I pray he doesn't cut his tongue one day.

The son of my mother never allows his babe
To decorate her hair with cowries and rub it Adiagbon
He prefers another woman's hair on her
She either wears it or add it to hers
The son of my mother abhors our local medicine. 

The medicine our mother bathed him with
As toddler to when he started having wet dreams
"Eew, your so-called medicines smell like shit"
He prefers to be pierced with a needle.

The son of my mother says there is nothing
In his inheritance, left for him by our father
He prefers to go and packs snows and babysit
In the west —
where another son of my mother was killed recently.

© Oladapo


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