JEREMIAD: "THE BURIAL AKARA" BY YUSHAB ABOLORE

They say nothing is sweeter than burial Akara

especially when it is fried for a woman whose life was bitterly neglected by the very children she carried in her womb.

I stood there today and watched hypocrisy dress up as celebration.

Look at Awon ọmọ olókù...

see how their lace glistened under the sun,

how their teeth shone brighter than their memories,

as if the sickness that dragged their mother to death never existed,

as if her cries were not swallowed daily by silence,

as if her pain was not ignored while life slowly leaked out of her body.

Alhaja’s children…

ah, wickedness sometimes wears human skin.

They buried their mother behind themselves...

behind pride, behind excuses, behind neglect.

Yet today, they are spraying Alámù Olóríìnèyẹ̀ money,

throwing cash into the air with reckless joy,

money that suddenly became abundant,

money that was mysteriously scarce

when their mother was begging for drugs,

when her body was shrinking into bones,

when death was knocking and knocking and knocking.

This morning, while the Alfas were still praying,

pleading with heaven for mercy on Alhaja’s weary soul,

her last born was fighting the caterer over akara.

Akara.

As oil was sizzling in the pan,

so was the insult to her memory.

As prayers were rising,

nonsense was rising higher.

And the truth?

Prayer is the only thing left that can still benefit Alhaja.

Everything else they are doing is noise,

a loud attempt to cover quiet guilt.

Someone told me, “Don’t judge them.”

And I won’t.

Because God knows what we don’t know.

Because only God truly sees what happened behind closed doors.

Because only God can defend those

who had no defender while they were alive.

But I know this...

there is a court higher than human mouths,

a judgement day where excuses don’t speak,

where lace doesn’t shine,

where sprayed money cannot bribe truth.

That day,

every neglect will testify,

every ignored cry will speak,

every delayed help will stand as evidence.

May God never allow us

to give birth to our enemies.

May our children not wait for our burial

before remembering our worth.

Amen.

© YUSHAB ABOLORE AYOMIDE

-Nigeria

This poem is a scathing critique of hypocritical mourning, exposing the stark contrast between the deceased mother's suffering and her children's extravagant funeral display. The speaker's anger and disappointment seethe through vivid imagery, as they recount the children's neglect and the mother's bitter fate. The poem's tone is biting, ironic, and reflective, with a strong sense of moral outrage. The use of rhetorical questions and metaphors ("wickedness sometimes wears human skin") drives home the point that true respect and care for the deceased come too late, and that judgement day will reveal the truth.