Leaving Ilorin
Today, the adhan for fajr is only an echo.
Somewhere a mother and her son are observing
the first ritual of departure – silence.
It thumps within them. Sprouts between them.
It’s a language, this silence: lips muffling teslim
as if audibility would slash the grace, hands
taking turns with the kettle in a rehearsal
of unscripted mimes. It’s fajr, & the mother
scans the room, like an eagle, in search of
the perfect qiblah to send her prayer to heaven.
The son, in hope of meeting the first rakah with
the congregation, hastens his ghusl. Worn as
a skin, doesn’t commitment levitate a prayer?
———
The mother shapes her hands into a cup &
unbundles her wishes: they are whispers –
punctuated by the son’s name – filled to the brim,
still intact, in their firmament. (I think this is
how grace works: it flows, might overflow, but
never erodes.) After his solah, the son reels off
adhkar – each syllable, a blanket of infinite mercy,
of heavenly blessing for the mother:
Rabbi irhamhuma kama rabbayanee sagheera.
Isn’t prayer a mirror of our lacks, our fears?
Mother and son observe the last ritual of departure:
the conviction that it might be another beautiful way
to name what makes her a widow; him, a fatherless child.
Rasheed Ayinla Shehu (RAS) hails from Ilorin, the capital of Kwara State. He is a graduate of English and Literary Studies, from the University of Ilorin. A fellow in Sprinng Writing Fellowship Cohort 8, his work has appeared or is forthcoming on 20.35 Africa, Ake Review, Brittle Paper, TSTR, the Kalahari Review, Akpata Magazine, the Muse Journal, Fiery Scribe Review, Afrihill Press and elsewhere. His poem was shortlisted for the Eriata Oribhabor Poetry Prize 2024.
