Seasons
I have thrown my hands of deeds into the air for sundry to inhale the scents. Now they are all
coming back to me in their own season of harvest when I was already gasping and choking on
dearth. You say kind are my doings. We are often christened after our adjectives or attributes of
arrival (at birth). Ask your mother if I lied.
For the tokens, I have given, a whole bag of gratitude steps into my door and unfolds itself of
treasures. You behear knocks on your heart wherever you are— far from home, and your soul
welcomes this charity like a window to a morning sunrise. Tell me more about chivalry again.
Perhaps, I could remember how a strange woman told me to not stop being a beacon, even at my
lowest current of light— I lent her a hand to mount from a stumble. Maybe she knew I was made
for heights, and with my joints I am paying the price, running kilometres before sunrise or by
sunset.
If I ever reap trees of flowers, fresh fruits, and foliage, I must have cultivated the seeds in the
womb of earth— my alms to a mother in need. Mother would always pay back in kind. Motherhood
never denies.
Contributor’s Bio
Tukur Loba Ridwan writes from a coastal axis on Lagos Island. He explores the vastness and finiteness; sanctity and vanity of existence: memories, identity, creation, lust, ruins, and loss. His poems appear in Cacti Fur, Pensive Journal, Gyroscope Review, Cordite Poetry Review, The African Writers Magazine, Kalahari Review, Rising Phoenix, ARTmosterrific, Libretto Magazine, Nigiga Review, The Quills, and elsewhere.He won the Brigitte Piorson Monthly Poetry Contest (March 2018) and was shortlisted in a few others including the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize 2020. He (co-) authored three poetry chapbooks: A Boy’s Tears On Earth’s Tongue, Anatomy of the Sun, and The Forgiveness Series. He cohorted with SprinNG Writing Fellowship and TRANSCENDENCE Masterclass from 2020 to 2022.
