A Different Self of You Awaits                                

That day in Eko, hours before we we argued

about where we would stay the night,

you told me the Ikenga is always made of,

and sometimes by you, its other. You shape

not only its outer body but its inner ways

as well. You can feed your Ikenga any

offering you choose, at any time of day or

year, or not feed your Ikenga at all. You can

paint, scarify, or leave its surface bare.

Everywhere is its altar. Hang your Ikenga

on a door, a tree, or a wall, nest it in

a secret drawer, bury it in sand, or fling it

into a pampas meadow as far as you can throw.

Caress your Ikenga, or break it into pieces.

Write it prayers, love letters, or threats.

Lustrate its beauty, or scream and curse

its features, its smell, its very existence

that you yourself have brought into being.

You can ignore your Ikenga.

An eternity of solitude troubles it not.

Your Ikenga can bear anything,

even that which would bring you

to direst ruin. Which is, naturally,

a good piece of the point.

Your Ikenga remains with you always,

no matter how many Ikengas you make,

destroy, or abandon. If you hurl your

Ikenga into the river, it will resurface

on the hidden delta where one or more

of your ancestors tills the soil of

inexorable rebirth. If you drop your

Ikenga into the deepest part of the ocean,

it will beach onto a shore where another,

different self of you awaits.

Self-important books call Ikenga

a warrior cult. That is like calling

the open slice in a martin’s tail

the whole of her power to fly.          




                                                          for Chukwuemeka        

MR/Metropolitan Review, State University of New York, 2015