Our Histories Do Not Make Us Who We Are & Other Poems – Emmanuel Sanusi

Our Histories Do Not Make Us Who We Are

Fractured bones buried under the silt of dust,
Our names, long forgotten by mouths
That named us, mouths filled with light,
Heavy with glory, heavens foresooth, we’re brave.

Thou art a burst of miracles,
Fire in the marrow of the morning sun,
Thee is given the best of our warmth
Thee shall not forget us, even when we have forgotten ourselves.

Tomorrow is a white wall waiting to be touched
By paints, our fathers did not call us sons so we’d
Be thick with pride, we were each other’s brothers
Lions, fearless like storms through an august sky.

Tomorrow is a fractured rib, a delicate muscle twisted
By the burden of today, but we’re whiter than our misery
And we’re crimsons, petals spread across the terror of the world,
Before tomorrow there’s the now, we give you thine water
Because thirst belongs to God.

Retelling a Stoic Tale

Once, before I let my misery 
Consume the lights of my heart.

I sat with psalms: the palm of God
And set my tears ablaze.

The thrilling sensation of burning
Is a small therapy pill that my body craves,

Once, in the darkness of a cold afternoon 
In Lagos, I slept in a traffic because I could 

Not move it forward, I let a driver almost 
Ran me over because I could not control 

His driving, I let the miracles of God touch
Me because I could not, not be touched.

Once, I prayed before what wanted to kill me,
Because before the treason of all the things 

I can control, the things I cannot alter stand firm,
I do not let my misery cover the lights of me,

I hold a man’s hand in the darkness of a night,
I tell him, in the journey of a thousand splendid steps

The only thing that matters is the step
We can take now, the small leap of faith.

Theory of Astral Projection

There are 56-billion butterflies
In the comfort of my almost broken palms.
Tenderness, unlike rationale, doesn’t require
Thinking, and like swift sweet soft subtle sleek
Songs, we reach for the ache before it sprawls
Its body through our skin, we hold its breath,
Open its mouth and pour our faith,
We hold our breaths, our intimacy,
Almost flung into our hearts sits between us
And the things we cannot yet say,
O seer of sixteen songs of love,
Conqueror of desolate earth,
We’re in our sleep and we’re outside,
Out with torches and searching for ourselves.
We let our consciousness commune with
Where we want to be at, we close our eyes,
Our heartbeats one with the serenity,
We open ourselves to endless possibilities
And we’re welcomed, by the voices
Of angels in paradise.

In a Conversation With Marcus Aurelius About Life’s Challenges

Life is really whatever we look at it as,
A slow song, a flood, a rampaging river
Of broken or forgotten dreams, a garden
Of achieved dreams, I look at myself and
The supposed silhouette of Marcus:
I have some questions for you, I trust in
Your ability to put answers to them.
When it all gets overwhelming, how do I
Deal with life?
         The impediment of action puts an advancement to the action
         If we stand in the way of a flowing river of milk, we become milk.
When I’m surrounded by fire, how do I keep myself cold inside?
         The reality of life is the fact that you can control your mind,
          What you cannot control is not for you to control.
When the world steps on me, what should I do?
        When you expect to be stepped on by everybody
        You feel a little less stepped upon.
Is there a way to not fear the unknown?
       What you regard as unknown today only remains unknown
        Until you meet it, and you will.
At the end of my conversation with Aurelius, one thing was clear,
Life is really whatever we regard it as, I regard mine as a meadow of sunflowers.

Remembrance

In the religion of love 
There’s you and there’s I

Falling into the prostration of
Singing your name, 

Oblivious of what it means
To  be covered by so much faith 

I run into you in the misery of my
Ache, a flood threatening to drown me

There’s no greater season for the rage of
Our fire than the season of dry stalks 

Dry air, dry lips waiting to be ripe
With kisses, a flood, threatening 

To burst the bright lights 
Of the rainbows in your eyes

There’s no greater season for love
Than the season of loneliness when the
Hearts really, really is need of a companion.

Emmanuel Sanusi is a Nigerian poet and writer who is presently based in the UK. He is greatly influenced by his environment and great minds like T.S. Eliot, Wole Soyinka, and J.P. Clark. He has performed his poetry at the Benue Book and Arts Festival, Nottingham, Abuja International Poetry Festival, SLAMeroun, and elsewhere, with publications in SEVHAGE Festival Anthology and JAY Lit. His debut collection of poetry is forthcoming in 2026.

*Image by Jake Weirick on Unsplash