Brigitte Poirson and Tanimonure Richards Adewale write

A MUM AND SON DUET, STARRING Brigitte Poirson AND Tanimonure Richards Adewale

DRINK, SINK; THEN GLASSES CLINK.

MY AFRICAN SON

You are the very definition of ‘is’, 

You, whose sizzling life fizzles and whizzes, 

You, the rejuvenation of your forefathers 

And regeneration of my foremothers, 

The one who once sucked and breathed my blood and brain 

And injected the sun into my pallid vein, 

You, the dark epiphany of my colourless flesh, 

The luminous spirit that lights my mind afresh, 

The one who will forever plead present 

Even if a whole hemisphere claims you absent, 

You, the other half of my half-earth, 

The one from whom I have run away to from birth, 

The odd node of my bodily abode 

Whose smiles crack a heavenly code, 

The crest of my soul, its brightest spume, 

The continent of my womb, 

The forelove of my loves, 

My African son.

                             --Brigitte

Momma Dearest, 

Indeed, I am the bliss of your 'is'! 

I sizzle fizzles of breezy whizzes, 

Growing billion likes and loves strong 

In silently loud heart-falls and want-calls, 

In loudly silent dreams and screams of a fond bond.

I am proud, loud in wide wows of bows 

To the legendary rejuvenation of my forefathers, my word fathers, 

And the ageless regeneration of my foremothers, my blood mothers, 

Whose spirits, like the Holy Spirit and Jesus Christ, 

Deep drowned me, cream crowned me king of ink, king of link. 

And I go and grow in glow of wonder word blows, 

Punching bangs of blasts of killing lines, 

Stoning dumb and numb a number of reads, deep drinks in feel, 

And the thrills and chills of self kills of motherfucking plagiarists.

Yes!!! I have sucked your blood and brain, Momma! 

I have sucked them sweet and neat to be poetically fit, 

To breathe life of fun, joy and wholesome wisdom 

Into every clay who gulps the pulps of my rainbow word juice,

That they may go, multiply, and dominate in style 

The earth of poetry, as many a word factory!

I am your unborn African son 

Who injects sun into your pallid vein, 

Who lights you afresh with luminous spirit, 

Who forever pleads for a hefty, dread-filled present 

In the lies of this hemisphere's absence, 

The dark epiphany of your colourless flesh, 

The other half of your half, complete in complement.

I am proud and loud, Momma, 

As the acme of your soul, the brightest white of your spume, 

The great African continent of your European womb, 

Forelove of a sea of loves, glowing you cool, good and true.

Yes, I am your African Son.

                                --Adewale