Broken Roads, Burning Hearts: The Poetry of Olatinwo Yushau
By Femi Morgan
There is a certain kind of courage that lives in the ordinary. It does not announce itself with trumpets or seek the spotlight. It simply endures through cold mornings, through long hours, through the quiet indignities that life sometimes demands.
Olatinwo Yushau's debut poetry collection, Broken Roads Still Lead, is a testament to this quiet courage. It is a work that holds promise, tackling both universal and existential themes with language that is simple yet accessible. The performance poet, whose work has appeared in Tribune Daily Newspaper, Upwrite Magazine, and http://Poetreel.com, has clearly invested time in working and reflecting on life. Yet, for all its strengths, the collection also reveals areas where the poet might grow, particularly in the use of literary devices, nuance, and formalism.
The collection opens its heart with _Cold Hands, Burning Hope_, a poetic narrative of a car washman enduring the bitter cold. His hands, frosted and numb, tell a story of physical hardship, but his heart, burning with hope, reveals something deeper. The poem's mood suggests that this is not a life he is accustomed to, that he does not hail from places where winter is a threat. There is a tenderness here, a vulnerability that makes his struggle palpable.
Yet, beyond the hardship, there is a subtle celebration of the dignity of work. The poet-persona reminds us that while dreams are valid, the path to greatness must be walked with integrity and honour. Despite the cold, despite the ache, he remains positive, believing that every good thing will eventually come.
> My hands became small pieces of winter,
> numb beneath the water, aching beneath my sleeves,
> but the rent did not care about the cold,
> and hunger has never understood
> the language of excuses.
> I had given my strength to the day,
> yet the day gave nothing back,
> only another reason to keep fighting.
> I promised myself I would find steadier ground,
> a proper door, a better future,
> and hands that would no longer tremble for survival.
Another poem, _Twelve Hours of Tomorrow_ shifts the gaze to the migrant experience, the harrowing journey of those trying to plant their feet firmly on foreign soil. One of the cruellest challenges of migration is the erasure of credentials, the nullification of leverage built at home. In the diaspora, the dreams that once seemed within reach are often salvaged only by returning to school, by seeking belonging in the white-collar world.
Unfortunately, it is a drudge, a slow grind, when a white-collar worker, whether from Nigeria or anywhere else, is reduced to blue-collar labour, made to face the harshest weather, weakened by the burden of using hands and bones instead of mind. The new strategy for survival becomes the embrace of long-suffering. The wage is far between, and overwhelming hopelessness is only mildly pierced by hope.
The migrant faces a deep depression, a haggling between mourning and self-motivation. Yet, fortunately, the dream reflects on a good ending.
> There were hours when time seemed cruel,
> the clock moving like it had forgotten mercy.
> I stood where I had to stand,
> worked where I had to work,
> because education was waiting on the other side.
In _The Hands That Raised Me_ a tribute to motherhood is crafted for a woman who struggled to keep her children alive in the face of gnawing poverty. The poem captures a precocious child's memory of watching his mother count money as though every note had a heartbeat, dividing what little she had into pieces large enough for all of them. The child never forgets such struggle, yet is unable to help the exhaustion wreaking havoc on the mind of the adult parent.
At the heart of this poem is a tribute to the endless long-suffering of a woman willing to sacrifice everything for her children.
> I watched my mother count money
> as though every note had a heartbeat.
> Bills gathered around her like hungry birds,
> and she kept dividing what little she had
> into pieces large enough for all of us.
_A Result That Wasn't Me_ explores how sickness can affect one's competence and capabilities, leading to failure. Narrating an autobiographical ordeal, the poet creates a nostalgia that resonates beyond the personal. This narrative hints at something larger, that well-being, good health, and humanness have begun to lose their grip on the home soil. How else would a student be allowed to write exams whilst battling a grave illness? Only in a place where poverty, strife, and lack of empathy have eroded the humanity in them.
> One month before the examinations,
> my body became a country I could no longer navigate.
> Illness dimmed the pages before me,
> turned concentration into a disappearing door,
> and made preparation feel like climbing through smoke.
Another poem, _Unread_ showcases the poet's gift for exploring some of the most complex modern themes with simple language. In this poem, the poet-persona delves into workplace manipulation, how unanswered requests, exclusion, and other silent but effective sabotage can lead to the loss of self-esteem and self-worth. A worker can become a diminishing asset because his emotions, health, and physical abilities are subject to the unity of trauma or connection.
Meanwhile, _A Room That Taught Me Kindness_ explores how shame, kindness, loneliness, dependence, and humiliation can be used as levers of control on someone lacking a place to lay his or her head.
_Six Hearts in a Broken Car_ reflects on the fragility of life, how easily it can be snatched on the asphalt of assumed certainty.
Suitably, _What I Lost in Ethereum_ resonates with the times, considering how money shapes our moods. With the emergence of cryptocurrencies as a rebellious outpost from the strictures of central banks, many young people ventured into it, only to meet their financial Waterloo.
It dawns on the poet-persona that failure bears a "strange silence" as against the celebrations of wealth and victory. Money is no doubt used to negotiate choices between a "sinking feeling" and how one must recover instead of remaining bogged down by the loss.
The poem reminds one of the adventure of Daniel Defoe's famous novel, _Robinson Crusoe_. There is no doubt the risk of loss, the uncertainty of recovery, and the urgency of reflection and recalibration. The poet did well to bring to bear that we all journey in search of our personal islands even in modern times.
> Money can be rebuilt,
> lessons can become armour,
> and even ashes can teach the hands how to begin again.
Keeping faith with the motif of loss, _The First Time My Heart Broke_ dwells on the universal theme of how love, unrequited love or heartbreak, and our experience of it shapes our perception. Love often struggles with experience because the heart and the mind argue when love tries to elicit the unity of two distinct selves.
