OUR BURIED DREAMS By Lan Rey Hassan
Poems will embody r-e-a-l-i-t-y as a seven-letter word, but no, it takes cities that have
run out of spaces to bury their dead, takes the tears of boys who learn to swim before walking because home is a shark wallowing in murky water and it takes the cemetery where the hope of men who only find their nation on maps of ‘cities where you can never find peace – are buried -to depict reality.
Think! What will the will of a man whose last prayers are whispers of run to his family carry?
In the times of Boko Haram, Do not ask how we walked in the streets of Borno without stepping on corpses (the first thing we taught our children was how to ride a boat on a tarred street that has
become flooded with blood, with tears).
Do not ask how hope was the only
music our hands made while we breathed
air, peppered with the rotten stench of putrid human-dreams: dead, decomposed and buried on the streets. (We learnt long ago, that Jesus raised the dead – Lazarus as a case study in John 11:34-44l
Do not ask why this poem, no, this reality-
is written as a past, It is our way of holding hope in our palms with its wooden helves,
our way of believing that it is all over, all history, at least, until the Sun closes its eyelids and another bomb explodes, then you will marvel at how black men
transform into Jesus, our cities, into Nazareth, and our buried dreams are again resurrected.
© Lan Rey Hassan
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