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Walking the Last Street & Exile, Blood and Bond || 𝑏𝑦 π‘€π‘–π‘›π‘˜π‘Žπ‘–π‘™ π‘‚π‘™π‘Žπ‘–π‘‘π‘Žπ‘›


The day just broke with sunny

Unbridled tongues burning

Our scalp from far above.

This road where masquerades collided

With gods, and leave their feet in the mud.

Men can be gods, but gods never are men.

Knowing this was the cradle of humility.

As a traveller with an unknown destination

I have basked under the half evening moon

Forging it remaining half in my tales: have

I not Feasted beneath starlit nights and 

Drenched under watery arrows of rains.

New land is this not you? I set my leg on the road—

Waving down passing cars,

Squeezing my mouth to form sounds,

To form translation in every sound I utter. 

But no! These moving cars are deaf,

Maybe my language is too godly to be heard

In Sodom.

Though I know life meaning is meaningless

In the face of a frenzied mob of death roaming

Every land has misery like cryptic embroidered

In cheap tabloid. 

Walking around now are men wearing

Hunger around their heads like a cape.

Sitting at the mouth of roads are kids

Robbing their hands for succour.

In the heart of markets are rows of women 

Bent by the mountain of despair 

These are strange things to a stranger,

To the eyes not familiar with seeing grief

This street is a downtown in hell

This hopeful body of mine can't survive

Deep bruises of here

Hey, Taxi, I am going to the

The last street in the state, I heard it's

Fair over there.



I am so much like an exile

Unrevealed is the meaning

Of the thing called me.

I lost myself on the highway of life

I look over time through the 

Passage of time. Seeing a man

Walking just like I do, culling night 

Around his eyes like a killer

I am the reincarnation of my father,

I am a new page of his old life

I hear his voice infer from the remnants

Of my words left in the air. Infers, yet, no basis

More Than bright days, I love nightmare 

Those whose major character is my 

Father, a man buried with his light in daylight

And seeks it at night in a hellhole  

Or this nightmare where his mother

Asks him who the owner of a half-burnt

Cigarette found is. "Not mine" he'd answer,

And that's how a little light faded in him

Constantly standing at the front of the mirror

Holding his picture, checking if his face

And my face have fought and lost


But no, how far can I wear this broken mask?

I long thus to a place where things received

Change, where names find their translation

And meaning, where the burnt skins get comfort,

But not where the link in the blood is cut off


MINKAIL OLAITAN is a Nigerian writer born in Ogbomoso, Oyo State. He's a poet who unfurls his heart into paper with his magnificent quill. His poetic language and voice are the remnants of a boy who wears the grief of others. His Articles have appeared on Nigerian Tribune, Insight, Morganable, Thekable, Mouthpiece among others, and he has his poem published on Poetry Tuesday, Stripes Magazine, The Shallow Tales Review etc.

He's a curious creative who writes every day. At his leisure time, he prefers listening to Brymo and Asa Bimpe to other things. 

Twitter: @minkail100
Instagram: @minkail_olaitan


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