{"id":969,"date":"2016-07-23T16:17:02","date_gmt":"2016-07-23T16:17:02","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mtls.wpcenter.io\/staging\/?p=969"},"modified":"2026-10-14T16:03:08","modified_gmt":"2026-10-14T16:03:08","slug":"dami-ajayi","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/dami-ajayi\/","title":{"rendered":"Dami Ajayi"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

Dreams<\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

This is what dreams are made of:
\nsepia scenery,
\naction creeps in.
\nMy Id is playwright.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dreams shuttle like red carpets
\nflying over memories,
\ntall spires & giant Town Hall clocks
\nstuck in time.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sometimes I shut my eyes
\nto the world\u2019s misery
\nfor a sleep-snack,
\nbask in the immediacy
\nof Morpheus\u2019s short embrace.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sleep trysts in molue held
\nby thrust & rust. Lagos is
\na jest of a city
\nsleep-walking by the marina.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Paulina<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

of the sultry waters.
\nHer ambience was Bvlgari Aqua Cool.
\nHer love was chaos,
\nhad me chasing stolen dreams
\nwith two left shoes.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I will wake to tell my tale,
\nI will wake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Sunday Afternoons<\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Sunday afternoons were for white rice & fried stew.
\nPlaiting and unplaiting hair with wooden combs,
\nrubbing pomade between hair partings,
\ntucked in the crustacean embrace of mum\u2019s thighs,
\nwrithing.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Seeing but not watching LTV\u2019s lousy adverts
\ntill NEPA strikes again
\n& hand fans replace ceiling rotors.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Dad\u2019s friend mulling over a big bottle of Satz,
\npulling gently at his wisps of beard;
\nhis lips telling tired stories
\nabout small fries,
\nin small towns,
\nliving out their little lives.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I Know what Lagos Does to Dreams <\/h3>\n\n\n\n

Lagos undresses them slowly like a nubile
\nwithout blemish.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lagos clambers by like a crab
\nwith stuttering footsteps.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lagos wriggles past\u2014
\nentropy in motion.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This city is audacious without remorse.
\nIt will leave you spent, hoarse
\nfrom frightening memories.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Lagos of lurid things.
\nLagos of finery.
\nA palimpsest hurriedly rewritten.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Owambe punctuated by one-chances,
\na shakedown from a hustle drum,
\nof syncopated Pentecostal rhythms.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This vigil won\u2019t part red seas or the lagoon,
\nthis chorus of hallelujahs won\u2019t saunter
\nbeyond eaves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

This offering of pittance,
\nthis basket of blood & sweat & tears,
\nthreadbare & tax-free.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

& heaven is an uptown Lagos residence\u2014
\nLekki, disyllabic, sitting in the ocean\u2019s mouth,
\ndaring, suicidal.<\/p>\n\n\n\n\n\n\n\n

Hooke’s Law <\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(For Emmanuel Iduma)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

They say affection is clay
\n& with my hands,
\nI shall forge a miniature stool
\nfor you to sit on, while I am away
\nso the days don\u2019t collapse
\ninto hours that render minutes
\nthat count seconds
\nthat bite.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Time is not like the elasticated band of my underpants,
\nbought off a Brooklyn street store.
\nTime does not obey Hooke\u2019s law.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I measure the distance between
\ndevotion & practice; I split hairs trying
\nto catch a grain of faith.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I conquer passion by wiping window panes
\nclean of mist, bury angst & temptation
\nin shallow graves without epitaphs.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

They say affection is clay
\n& kids always muddy their fingers.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Banana <\/strong><\/h3>\n\n\n\n

(For Alpha Blondie)<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

She still haunts me,
\nthat buxom Bugandan lady
\nwho promised to shower me
\nwith her waters.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I could tell from her smile
\nthat her lips didn\u2019t lie.
\nNeither would her hips.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

She holds my left elbow
\nlike a Kazuo Ishiguro title.
\nStopping short of my hotel room door,
\nshe says I\u2019m entitled to every pleasure
\nI seek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

To heed her call would be to let my Id
\ninto the playground. The bed is equipped
\nwith a net to keep the mosquitoes out;<\/p>\n\n\n\n

German Juice ferries itself
\nthrough window shutters. A fluorescent bulb
\ntwinkles with disbelief when she mentions the word,
\nKunyaza.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

At dawn, I am many men:
\nMigos\u2019 reincarnate and
\nMatooke is my word of choice.
\nThey say the best way
\nto bait a Ugandan woman
\nis with a banana tree.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

Banana<\/strong>
\n(For Alpha Blondie)<\/em>
\nShe still haunts me,
\nthat buxom Bugandan lady
\nwho promised to shower me
\nwith her waters.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":3145,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"footnotes":""},"categories":[7],"tags":[],"class_list":["post-969","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-poetry"],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/969","targetHints":{"allow":["GET"]}}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=969"}],"version-history":[{"count":2,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/969\/revisions"}],"predecessor-version":[{"id":3615,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/969\/revisions\/3615"}],"wp:featuredmedia":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media\/3145"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=969"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=969"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/mtls.ca\/issue23\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=969"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}