Out of green lappah i crawl
Uphill I waddle my buttocks
Defeating my cripple tales
Grandpa’s leather in thirty-two
But, Ramota’s kept frown is caught

Yet, I shall breast these hills
Clutching to my heart every steps
A clink I will not buy for your face
So weep not for bean-cake
Not even palm-oil droplet shall I propitiate
Like you, on this boulder i suck
The nipples of the breast
So, let your ferocity melt in your loins
For I am a market of mysteries

For I am a market of anvils
You all must know
Is an anthem beyond myths
My name in upper case lick class bottom
Yet, in timbre and calibre i lay my words
I am a market of mysteries
I sell untaught sewn words
So, melt the tang of your exasperation hill
Put barbiturate on the gargoyle of your corrosive face
Sundiata Mari Jata is a conundrum of grace
Nestled in the nest of the anthills
The frowns say will explain God’s riddle.



Born in Ikorodu-Lagos, Nigeria in the early 90’s. Bolaji Akinwande Akintola like other lovers of books is a voracious reader. A former editor Campus Magazine, and politically vibrant person and a teacher of History, rising poet and a member of Poetry Club International.


5 thoughts on “Anthills

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