In a language scooped directly from a paintbrush, Inua Ellams announces his arrival on the poetry scene. His vibe is grainy as old vinyl with bumping beats between the lines. Extract:
from 13 fairy negro tales Spokenword is like sex/
the more you listen/
the better it gets./ That’s why on long bus rides/
I close my eyes and try to hear drumbeats/
from Nigeria- the mother land calling./
I be like “yes mum, I’m hearing ya”/
It’s like some ciphered world/
with armies of sounds/
and underground cultures/
with talon-less vultures/
trying to pierce my skin/
and place talking drums within./ But Hip Hop takes over/
and my head bobs to the beat/
of a different soldier/
and it’s gotten colder/
on this side of thought/
‘cause now/
I hear dreams money bought.