There is an old saying that wherever the oká sits, his meal finds its way to his doorstep. In this poem, the speaker turns directly to Ògún, the orisha of iron and the road, with a single urgent request: let my steps not lead me to the threshold of that which longs for my blood. The road, he reminds us, has a hungry mouth.
Ayiyi Joel carries the weight of that image lightly but precisely. The speaker is not bargaining or boasting. He is simply a young person, still in the dawn of a green unravelling life, asking to be spared.
That last line stays with you long after the poem ends.
Originally published by Brittle Paper.