Yomi Ṣode

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Dear Bo,

It’s five thirty something in the morning, and true to our last conversation, I am leading with intention, as best as I can, my bro. Got a few natural wakes under my belt now actually. The silence is such that it feels respectful. Birds be tweeting, fridge be humming low. Of course, all of this opens new room for reflection.

‘My Childhood Tastes Like’ is the only poem we worked on together. I never shared this, but this poem in many ways was a desperate cry to hold on to anything remotely Nigerian around me. It’s a chore to exist within spaces you consider home, especially when having to return. So, this was a frustrating and liberating poem to write. It has travelled with me over time, and oddly started this thing with food that I’ve yet to make sense of. 

You edited this poem last, and I love the irony in that. You suggested ROBB, crossed out the tis, and you put less vim on the shaki, ‘it doesn’t need a capital S.’ I never considered the process, working with you.

The affirmation of a Black British editor. There will forever be writers, but it’s the subtle cultural things that’s clocked, the lightbulb moments, and the angst (my frustration in the poem/the search) in not feeling alone in this. The Manorism, in just knowing.

My bro, you got it, without me saying anything, and I wasn’t intending on this being long. I hope (to some degree also) it makes sense, because that’s all I’m doing at the moment. Trying to make sense of everything happening around me.

Thank you, my bro.

Yomz x