an empire without urbanization
the problem of Nigeria is the problem of not knowing her history
—Chief Olusegun Obasanjo
& when my sister read the ayah where God said he sculpted us
from clay like pottery, i beheld the idea—clay, then breathed form
to whatever smoke i see without fire. observed, the way history
wrote my grandfathers on the map of human geography
& i—a gardener of silences, burying the scenes. its shadows
an onion bulb, beeping through the basal plate summoning
the ghosts thrumming in our eyes. i don’t remember when we’re
Nigeria but i do remember we once were. i traced the fossils
as they appeared in the forgotten pages of an old library
softening each clue into the compendium of my mother’s folklore.
i saw memories, the intercepted coastlines, spilling into longings
into passions. i saw: how lonely a hero could be on a lonelier journey
how unready they’re to let go of the dreams & hunger for unity
that cradled them to their graveyards, wings brushing against griefs
that still live in the land that embraced us, the tea table between
kwame Nkruma & i—the ambitions spilling in his throat before
the tea ran cold, Fumilayo Ransom Kuti with her fierce flower
of justice before she was thrown out the window of life. i held
the tears in my eyes before they could douse the burning candle
that stood in the way of darkness. the truth is, we do not know
to sum up a single thought out of these mathematical blizzards.
those people, their flags, borrowed from each other, a promise
merging like shared mist, their voices in the land
where peace is taken for sin, which from which the route
the birds took to be ahead of what lied beyond the leaflet
of dusk. i carried these questions on the rooftop of my heart but
wanting flags _________ insufficient.. so i sought light from my mother’s
sweet-metaphors: dear son, she starts,the present has no existence
of its own, simply the presence of the past in light of the present
but we’ve overruled the grains that ground us until indifferent
& time wear thin. i still don’t believe, mother, whether
the knowledge of the past the birds carry with them, preserves
their history? without history, she ends, one is an architect
building an empire without urbanization, for memories, you see
preserve national identity.
S. Abdulwasi’h Olaitan is a Nigerian-introverted poet, pupil of Laws, and graphics designer. Member of Oyongo Collective. He writes from Ilorin, a city he fondly describes as “a breath from heaven.” He currently serves as Managing Editor at Words-Empire Magazine. A co-winner of the 2024 Prose Purple Writing Prize (Poetry category), 2nd place winner of Wordweavers 2025 contest. His works have appeared or are forthcoming in Bare Hill Review, Jaylit, Pictura Journal, Carolina Muse, ANMLY, Synkroniciti Magazine, Exist Otherwise, UGR, Eco Punk Literary, and others. When not writing, he enjoys tea, cherishes his parents, and listens to Billie Eilish in the dark. Find him on X (formerly Twitter).