Staccato by Olaore Philip Durodola-Oloto

It's evening again and you're seated-

Just like every other evening

At Mama Nkechi’s hazy cool spot,

Downing booze into that parched throat of yours,

Like Tutuola’s famed protagonist.

Moroseness draped around your frame,

Seeping into your morale and countenance.

Turns out you're the odd one in the room,

Sharing table with no lover,

No friends,

Nor engaging in political talks,

Or sport commentaries–

Just you and the misery you created,

Passing the night.

You think you've known misery?

Because you've been flung to the heights of the Augean stables,

And crashed into the murky turf,

Just as you savoured its greek gift?

Well, it's your misery, not mine!

Four hours now and

These bottles don't seem to numb your pain,

So, you resort to staggering your way home,

To resign into the comforts of that cranky bed of yours

that shrieks whenever you're exploring Basirat’s valley,

And every one of your one- night stands.

I wish I could spare some motivating words,

but you didn't fall,

So, you cannot rise.

You didn't advance,

So, you cannot retreat.

You're just like the staccato notes

that the oversabi girl struggles to play

on the black keys of the church piano.

__________________________

Olaore Philip Durodola-Oloto ( The Colossus Himself) writes from Lagos, Nigeria. He is a budding writer with keen interest in poetry and fiction. He has work published/ forthcoming in Brittle Paper, JCI Magazine, Outside the Box Poetry, The Kalahari Review, Inverse Journal and elsewhere. He tweets on X @olaore_philip