THE PLIGHT OF THE MICROPHONES by Tosin Olaniyi

Heyy love! Hope your week has been fantastic. Mine has been great so far and I can’t wait to share all about it as the week goes by. Today, we’re talking poetry and inspirations. This is one of my most loved poems as it entails me personifying the microphone…Enjoy!

THE PLIGHT OF THE MICROPHONES

 

I wake up early this morning,

Dressing up and smiling,

I’m wondering,

‘Do I wear my yellow, red or black cloak?

Or my coat of colour block?’

…and just then, I remember,

And I start to cry and wither.

 

I put on my red cloak

And set out sadly on my journey,

I walk across ditches,

With cemented carpets,

I press my ear to the ground,

…and just then, I hear sounds,

Of crying, weeping and withering

I move closer,

And hear a familiar buzzer,

Sounds of my beloved brother,

Yelling in his grave,

But what shall I do?

…and just then, it dawns on me,

Nothing, but to continue my journey

I walk into a building,

With humans dancing,

I stroll across the aisle,

And just as if he knows I’m around,

He stops the music and picks me up,

…and just then, I remember,

Why I wept this morning

 

Dear flesh with brains, why do you treat me so?

I get all the smashes, the strikes and the hits, o!

Yet, I’m the hit that gives your voice

The heat that she needs,

I come in different shapes

…and sizes

…various colours

…and names

Sometimes, I even get so compressed,

That I can fit into your blouse,

I see things I shouldn’t,

And wonder…why?

When I’m placed on a woman’s chest

I feel so warm,

But I get muddled up under her breast after a while

And then, I choke.

And when I’m placed on a man’s

Oh my!

It’s so hard; I can hear his heart beat

And his hairs spring up and prick me.

As the pastor picks me up,

I close my eyes,

As I await my destiny

Show up,

Again and again

…and just then, I feel something,

Oh! Its acid rain again!

Acid rain!

It falls in mass!

A mix of unfavourable scents

And liquid I read, is called saliva,

My coat is all wet and smelly,

‘Can someone help me?’ I cry out

…and just then, I hear a lament

A very familiar one

‘Who art thou,

That forgets fluoride is thy friend,

Why do thou hold me with such levity?

Why do thou put me so close

To the big hole in thy face?

Why do thou kiss me this much?

I need some space!

Some space I do need!

From thy muck!

From the words that ooze out of that hole,

They hit me so much,

They have so much impact,

They come with breeze,

They come with fluids,

They come with a scent,

A scent I can stand no more,

A scent so strong for me,

…my battery dies’

And I hear my brother,

My elder brother,

No more.

As the preacher finally ends his speech,

I await yet another hit,

As I…ouch! He just hit my head

On the ground.

I have no say here,

Though I do all the work,

This, is my fate,

This, is my destiny,

This, is my plight.

I am, The Microphone.

 

I am definitely not your everyday poet. For me, inspiration to pen a poem down comes from the blues. It is either something happens to me and it ignites some poetic justice within me, I see something that strikes a chord or I’m forced to do it, either to prove to myself that I can do it or to get a job (yes, my first poem on the blog was for a job…details later).

This poem originated from one of those forceful attempts. In my third year of Uni, just a day after we had been assigned project supervisors, I was sitting quietly listening to my project supervisor who was also the lecturer to certain sweet yet delicate courses I took then. I was probably even lost in  thought, when I heard, ‘who in this class writes poems’?  Before I could put my hand up, I already heard someone chanting ‘Tosin’. I’m sitting there wondering what Bfem (that’s what we called him) had up his sleeves.

In a split of seconds, I hear a clear yet frightening instruction, ‘Imagine what microphones go through and write me a poem about it. Submit it tomorrow!’  I think the topic in class that day was the use and care of microphones in the radio station. I smiled and nodded. I glanced at my wrist watch, it was around 2pm, I can’t quite recall the exact time though. Deep inside me, I was like ‘OMG, how am I supposed to cook that up within a few hours?’

After the class ended, I strolled to the school’s radio station. When I got in, I admired the microphone from the clear glass that demarcated the recording room from the studio room.

I spoke with one of the ladies that worked there, Kaffy and explained the task I had. She laughed and told me to imagine how sad microphones feel when spat on, all in the name of speaking. She reminded of how some microphones were squeezed in to mini mics and placed somewhere in people’s outfits. After I left the Studio, I went to my worship centre. Lol all in the name of this poem o. Luckily for me, I was a chorister in school so I handled the microphone quite more than most of my mates might have. My choir members and I made jokes about my assignment and even formed a song for it, led by my friend and brother, Yinka AKINOLA…some words of this poem came from these experiences.

After a long day, I got to my room and slept…woke up the next morning, picked up my pen and it all flowed. I wrote. Smiled. Paused and wrote again. My room mates probably wondered what was wrong. Its the love for poetry, my dear. I submitted the poem that day and though, my supervisor never said anything about it till this day, I’m proud I could leave my comfort zone to pull this off. It might not be your everday poetry but it opens your eyes to see how little things can be treated better.

The microphone isn’t a drum, Please don’t hit, especially on the head, like a nuaghty child. Do not spit on/at it , it’s not a gutter and pleaseeee stop dropping it on surfaces harshly, so that it can last long.

I dedicate this poem to Dr Babafemi Akintayo (Bfem), Kaffy, Babcock University broadcasting students of the 2016 graduating set (cuz the struggle was too real haaa) and to Bethel Chapel Choristers. I love you…

 

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I’m sorry this was a long read.

Till my next post,

Always reflect God’s perfection xx