The Salt of the Niger Benue
Construct a box of Iroko and the salt of the Benue.
Slot the windows into the grooves of the wood,
tight as the grip of the Isoko fisherman’s salt-worn net.
We make lanterns because the gulf
has a way of swallowing the horizon whole.
Inside, the wick is a white needle
stitching the dark of the Lagos lagoon to the dock.
No oil remains silent here; it cracks,
a small, bright friction of earth resisting the tide.
Feel the pulse of the palm oil
beating against the glass’s hot, yellow tooth.
The light is a thumbprint of fire on the coastline,
reminding the waves that we are still awake,
tending to the small, fierce architectures of the night.
Inside, the wick is a white needle
stitching the dark of the Lagos lagoon to the dock.
No oil remains silent here; it cracks,
a small, bright friction of earth resisting the tide.
Feel the pulse of the palm oil
beating against the glass’s hot, yellow tooth.
The light is a thumbprint of fire on the coastline,
reminding the waves that we are still awake,
tending to the small, fierce architectures of the night.
The Kerosene Pulse
The wick is a spine of braided lemongrass,
fed by the pungent sweat of the yellow jerrycan.
We do not mould light here; we house a restless life.
In the compound, the tin is rolled, punched with dog Stars
by a rusted nail and the strike of a heavy stone—
a drumming of metal against the rising dust.
The heat doesn’t rise; it remembers
the hard palm of the blacksmith,
the way he bent the zinc to mimic a low-hanging moon.
This is a chimney for the day’s labour and dust,
leaving the top open so the ancestors can breathe.
As the lamp swings on its wire,
the sharp holes throw shapes of silhouettes
across the baobab’s skin,
turning the dark into a path for the long walk home.
The Walking Lung
Scissor the rice paper into veins, or better,
scrape the goat-hide until it is a ghost of a wall,
transparent as a secret whispered in the crowded market.
Glue the rods with a paste of cassava and gravel.
This is the craft: making the cloudy give up its ghost.
Inside, the fire is a guest walking the borders of the skin,
turning the scars of the hide into a golden pattern.
It is a lung of walking, expanding until the palm tree ribs hum,
carrying a sun that cannot burn the fingers
that built its sky from the scraps of the dry season.
It is beautiful because it permits the glow
to spill onto the potholed, red-clay track,
turning the walk through the bush into a vein of molten gold.
Author’s Bionote:
*Ayo Ayoola-Amale is a multi-award-winning Nigerian poet, peace-builder and the visionary pioneer of Structvisual Poemtry™ — a revolutionary discipline that treats peace not as a fleeting ideal, but as a built, structural human right. As the founder of the Splendors of Dawn Poetry Foundation and initiator of the global exhibition ‘The Canvas for Peace,’ Ayo harnesses the "Hymn of the Soul" to deconstruct the rigid architectures of conflict and systemic inequality. Her work, including the 2024 African Literature Prize-winning the Suns Chased Us, focuses on confronting violence by engineering a new language for liberation—one that weaves the transformative power of the creative arts into the very fabric of global peacebuilding. Ayo has successfully bridged diverse demographics by marrying the precision of architectural imagery with the soul of poetry. This innovative framework transforms complex social tensions into accessible, resonant human connections, ensuring that peace is no longer an abstract hope, but a structural reality. She is the architect of a new era, utilizing the blueprint of the imagination to construct the lasting infrastructure of global peace.
Construct a box of Iroko and the salt of the Benue.
Slot the windows into the grooves of the wood,
tight as the grip of the Isoko fisherman’s salt-worn net.
We make lanterns because the gulf
has a way of swallowing the horizon whole.
Inside, the wick is a white needle
stitching the dark of the Lagos lagoon to the dock.
No oil remains silent here; it cracks,
a small, bright friction of earth resisting the tide.
Feel the pulse of the palm oil
beating against the glass’s hot, yellow tooth.
The light is a thumbprint of fire on the coastline,
reminding the waves that we are still awake,
tending to the small, fierce architectures of the night.
Inside, the wick is a white needle
stitching the dark of the Lagos lagoon to the dock.
No oil remains silent here; it cracks,
a small, bright friction of earth resisting the tide.
Feel the pulse of the palm oil
beating against the glass’s hot, yellow tooth.
The light is a thumbprint of fire on the coastline,
reminding the waves that we are still awake,
tending to the small, fierce architectures of the night.
The Kerosene Pulse
The wick is a spine of braided lemongrass,
fed by the pungent sweat of the yellow jerrycan.
We do not mould light here; we house a restless life.
In the compound, the tin is rolled, punched with dog Stars
by a rusted nail and the strike of a heavy stone—
a drumming of metal against the rising dust.
The heat doesn’t rise; it remembers
the hard palm of the blacksmith,
the way he bent the zinc to mimic a low-hanging moon.
This is a chimney for the day’s labour and dust,
leaving the top open so the ancestors can breathe.
As the lamp swings on its wire,
the sharp holes throw shapes of silhouettes
across the baobab’s skin,
turning the dark into a path for the long walk home.
The Walking Lung
Scissor the rice paper into veins, or better,
scrape the goat-hide until it is a ghost of a wall,
transparent as a secret whispered in the crowded market.
Glue the rods with a paste of cassava and gravel.
This is the craft: making the cloudy give up its ghost.
Inside, the fire is a guest walking the borders of the skin,
turning the scars of the hide into a golden pattern.
It is a lung of walking, expanding until the palm tree ribs hum,
carrying a sun that cannot burn the fingers
that built its sky from the scraps of the dry season.
It is beautiful because it permits the glow
to spill onto the potholed, red-clay track,
turning the walk through the bush into a vein of molten gold.
Author’s Bionote:
*Ayo Ayoola-Amale is a multi-award-winning Nigerian poet, peace-builder and the visionary pioneer of Structvisual Poemtry™ — a revolutionary discipline that treats peace not as a fleeting ideal, but as a built, structural human right. As the founder of the Splendors of Dawn Poetry Foundation and initiator of the global exhibition ‘The Canvas for Peace,’ Ayo harnesses the "Hymn of the Soul" to deconstruct the rigid architectures of conflict and systemic inequality. Her work, including the 2024 African Literature Prize-winning the Suns Chased Us, focuses on confronting violence by engineering a new language for liberation—one that weaves the transformative power of the creative arts into the very fabric of global peacebuilding. Ayo has successfully bridged diverse demographics by marrying the precision of architectural imagery with the soul of poetry. This innovative framework transforms complex social tensions into accessible, resonant human connections, ensuring that peace is no longer an abstract hope, but a structural reality. She is the architect of a new era, utilizing the blueprint of the imagination to construct the lasting infrastructure of global peace.