[This piece contains subtle content on suicide and suicidal ideations. You may stop reading now for the sake of your
your soul left on a Sunday evening,
with everything that made this family sane.
father refused to accept it,
that his favourite son // found solace on a tree neck,
that eternal peace // can sometimes be found on a rope,
that all you need to do is push the stool away from your feet,
and let life meanders out of your body before dawn.
I tell lies. // I lied that I never knew what went wrong,
why your body became a house for broken dreams,
and your soul // a harbour for demons like human flaws.
I saw your letters tucked away under the bed,
the ones you wrote to Aduo but never mailed.
now I understand why you tuck death under your tongue,
and choose to let your body like dried leaf dangle from a tree.
this morning, I did not bother to go for Mass.
you said He doesn't hear prayers // the ones from boys like us,
father said it is unnatural to love this way,
and that we choose doom like those from the past.
I am waiting for when he’d come back on his bicycle,
I am standing right in front of the mirror in your room,
but I see your soul settling in my body,
I won't want mother to meet me like this,
or come fetch my body hanged from the Udala tree.
so on a paper i write these painful words before running
“gone papa // for we are all birds and some of us have broken wings
tell mama to lock her doors // this boy likes boys and he’s gone to find love."
Ololade Edun is a contemporary creative, a microbiologist, and a medical student. He writes
experimental things and his works have appeared, or are forthcoming in Kalahari Review,
Parousia, The Shallow Tales Review, Pawners Papers, The Scribe Post, Voice Lux Journal, &
When he is not writing, Ololade is either in the laboratory culturing microbes or drowning in
Indian/Pakistani playback songs. He tweets beautiful things @OloladeWrites.