The Yoruba phrase, awọn eniyan wa o si lọ bi oṣupa ṣe nyọ ti o si n lọ,
means people come and go as the moon waxes and wanes.
The moon poets write about it as the same moon
that guided my way to and from the hospital.
Yet it does not begin to encompass
the pain that stayed after you left.
I was suffocating in a sea of your mortal ashes.
Now, this phrase takes on a new meaning.
It means the somberness of my mother tongue
and how because of my unpaid debt to you,
I will never be able to make a promise
in this sacred language again.
It is my first language and therefore defines my roots.
English is my second language and is my most
familiar and therefore reflects my identity.
When they are placed side by side,
it is a jarring sight—like me.
After all this time away from home, I still struggle to pronounce
every single word I utter, correctly, accurately, meticulously.
Language defines your place in a foreign, unconquered land.
Is this truly where I belong?
I am slowly losing the things that tie me to Ile-Ife;
my language, and my ancestors and yet for some reason,
I am still unable to put old ghosts to rest.