Score |
42
Olanma
<p> </p><p><img alt="" src="/media/inline_insight_image/4675.png"/></p><p><em>Photo credit; Crixtover Edwin (Instagram)</em></p><p><br/></p><p>Every fold is a prayer,</p><p>every colour, a praise;</p><p>blue for the rivers that carried us,</p><p>red for the blood that stayed.</p><p><br/></p><p>She is not adorned.</p><p>She is <em>armored</em></p><p><br/></p><p>---</p><p><br/></p><p>Wound tight like scripture,</p><p>layer upon layer of knowing,</p><p>each tuck a testament to women who wrapped before her,</p><p>grandmothers whose hands moved like liturgy,</p><p>whose fingers folded fabric,</p><p>the way priests fold silence</p><p>before speaking God's name.</p><p><br/></p><p><em>The cloth remembers what the world tried to forget.</em></p><p><br/></p><p>---</p><p><br/></p><p>There are dots of light on her brow like anointing oil,</p><p>like the moment the Spirit decides a forehead,</p><p><em>is holy enough to mark.</em></p><p><br/></p><p>Her eyes do not ask permission.</p><p>Her lips hold the kind of quiet, </p><p>that comes after long worship</p><p>spent, full and <em>unafraid</em>.</p><p><br/></p><p>---</p><p><br/></p><p>The flowers in her hair are blue,</p><p>because she blooms,</p><p>in colours that should not survive the dark,</p><p>and yet.</p><p><br/></p><p><em>And yet!</em></p><p><br/></p><p>---</p><p><br/></p><p>She is not a painting.</p><p>She is a sanctuary.</p><p><br/></p><p>Every fold is a prayer.</p><p>Every glance, a sermon.</p><p>Every breath she takes</p><p>in blues and reds and gold.</p><p><br/></p><p> An act of devotion to the God who made her and called her</p><p> <em>very good.</em></p>
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