That We Are Clay Plates

Saheed Sunday, Nigeria

a boy here owns the body of his father.
another man here is the one shedding off his skin
today, for the sun, for the son.
men are meant to be clay pots.
aisha stacks names of men into an engraving
—clays don’t break, men don’t break.
who holds unto a man with tears on cheeks,
apart from the filthy thing that fills his eyes,
the salty thing that breaks his manhood?
boys are the ice you show off to the sun,
and call your god,
& another man has melted into your palms.
here, a man carved himself into a stone
—eureka, stones do not hurt,
men do not hurt, men don’t cry,
men aren’t squeaky rats caught in fire.
red doesn’t always mean danger,
sometimes it means you’re on gasoline,
you’re catching fire soon.
& the rains here are without hands,
no river saves a broken man,
no river cleanses a broken man.
say, engrave this to your forehead,
watch your reflection and remember:
men don’t break, they are stones under the cheeks
merely jinxed into spittle.
men don’t cry, they are brethren of water
& a brother doesn’t give his brother out,
but for a set of teeth.
men don’t brood, they are clay plates
—brown, like otijze.
stones as heart,
silk as eyes & jaws.
men are strings of notes of an ukulele,
played to anyone than them.

Sunday T. Saheed is a 17yr-old Nigerian writer. The author of the book, “Rewrite The Stars”, is the 1st runner-up for the Nigeria Prize for Teen Authors, 2021