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daàPò is a writer slash a storyteller…

Pictorial prose or poetry is my way to document the supremacy of individual drive and the inexorable subsequent waves generating, our tongues as the first unit of measurement to communicate, cohabit, connect and/or affect and influence one another.

THE RANDOMS…  

KISS THE DUST |  LA MOTA & THE KINDAHUMANSAT THE CRACK OF DAWN |  MOONSHINERS |  SOME CRAZY DUDE DRINKS A CUP OF TEA |    

THE ORIGINAL SOUNDTRACKS…  

A PORTRAIT OF THE YOUNG MAN AS A ZOMBIE |  THE CASSAVA MONOLOGUEWELCOME TO EARTH: POPULATION 1 |  PRIMA FACIE |

My grandfather once told me a story about the father of his father. He was the most feared man in his village, and for all the reasons unknown to his wife whom he had loved the most.

She would always taunt him that the cassava is a root she would hold in the palm of her hand, she would ground it into flakes, and mold it into balls that her fingers would dip in a bowl of egusi soup made of palm oil and melon seeds. So how could the same cassava, root so much terror in the eyes of those around him? One day, he brought home a present only just for her, and in a covered calabash was the answer to all the questions that had trailed her.

“Woman,” he had said to her, “do you remember that the cassava is a poisonous root if it is grounded but unsieved, are you aware that it is only edible if it has allowed you to boil it? Here lies the head of your father as a reminder of who I truly am.”

My grandfather died a long long time ago, and most of his stories I had always hoped would die with him so they don’t fall into the wrong ears. But, the savagery of men still lives in the air that I breathe today. Big men with clean hands, chopping off heads for all to see who holds power. Red neon signs are bleeding lights atop buildings with broken bones and fractured skulls under their glass facades.

Everywhere, and this place where I am, an open-air slaughterhouse betrayed only by the smell of fresh blood. Always, looking clean.