Mayok Media

Category: Poetry

  • The Museum of Gods

    Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

    A Lament for the Stolen Sacred

    They came with ships and sermons,
    crosses in one hand,
    guns in the other.
    They found altars we had made from stone and spirit,
    and called them blasphemy.

    They did not bow.
    They did not ask.
    They took.

    What they called idols
    were our elders in wood.
    Our prayers in bronze.
    Our wisdom braided into clay.

    They shattered the shrines
    and stole the statues.
    Said, “You are savages,”
    as they wrapped our gods in linen
    and mailed them to Europe.

    Then they built museums—
    temples of theft—
    where people now stand in quiet awe
    before the very things we were beaten for loving.

    And they say:

    “Look at the craftsmanship.”
    “Such primitive elegance.”
    “How valuable this is.”

    But what they mean is:

    “It only became sacred once we took it.”

    They bow now—
    but only to the plaque,
    to the frame,
    to the price tag.

    We see the altars behind glass.
    We are told to be grateful.
    That they were “preserved.”

    But what they mean is:

    “You were never meant to be trusted with your own holiness.”

    So we light candles in our lungs.
    We whisper prayers in hidden tongues.
    We touch soil and remember its name.
    We bow—not to stone,
    but to spirit.

    Because we know—

    A god behind glass
    is still a god.
    And the stolen sacred
    still sings.

  • Ode to Camp, or: I Died in Couture and Came Back in Sequins(A Poem in Heels)

    Mary Mba (Ph.D)

    Darling,
    I was born in a wig and reborn in rhinestones.
    When the doctor slapped me, I said,
    “Not the face.”

    I am Camp.
    Not a style,
    But a resurrection.

    I paint my lips with irony,
    Contour my cheekbones with pastiche,
    My eyeliner so sharp it cuts through heteronormativity.
    I don’t cry—
    I glitter.

    I’m the chandelier at a funeral.
    The swan dive in a cocktail dress.
    I’m Bette Davis lighting a cigarette with your expectations
    and exhaling a monologue that ends in thunderous applause
    from ghosts who wish they were this extra.

    Camp is a wink in a war zone.
    A ball gown in a bunker.
    It’s knowing the script, tearing it up,
    and then delivering every line in a British accent
    with a martini in one hand and a drama in the other.

    I am Cher in a headdress.
    Gaga in four looks.
    RuPaul crowning queens like the Vatican crowns Popes
    (but with better shoes).
    I am Divine divine.

    My aesthetic?
    Apocalypse but make it fashion.
    My gender?
    Sequined disbelief.
    My spirit animal?
    Susan Sontag’s typewriter tapping out “Notes on ‘Camp’”
    in six-inch stilettos with a smirk.

    I am not real.
    I am more than real.
    Too much?
    That’s just enough.

    So let the naturalists mumble in beige.
    Let the tasteful bow in their taupe blazers.
    I’ll be over here—

    In tulle.
    On fire.
    And perfectly,
    ridiculously,
    fabulously—undone.

  • The Ritual

    (modern, meditative, drag/makeup/spiritual glam tone)

    By Mary Mba, Ph.D.

    I sharpen my face with light.

    Draw bone from shadow.

    Lips from silence.

    Gender from powder.

    This is not hiding.

    This is revelation.

    Each line I blend

    resurrects someone

    I have always been

    but never been allowed to be.

    I become a woman—

    not by birthright,

    but by brilliance.

    Not by biology,

    but by brushstroke.

    Some faces arrive weathered.

    Wrinkled. Withered.

    Time-carved and ghosted by youth.

    But in these hands,

    they rise.

    High cheekbones from jowls.

    Bright eyes from years of sleep lost.

    Goddess from grief.

    Glamour from grief.

    I do not pray at altars.

    I paint them.

    I become them.

    This is drag.

    This is devotion.

    This is how we survive

    in a world that dares us to disappear.

  • My Ethiopian Brother

    (For Abera)

    He came quietly,

    not like thunder

    but like spring rain.

    One moment we were strangers

    at the African Student Association meeting,

    the next—

    he was on the floor

    building towers of blocks

    with my children,

    laughing like he’d known them forever.

    He never asked if I needed help.

    He simply showed up.

    When the injury struck,

    and word spread like wind through our small community,

    Abera was there.

    Trash bins emptied.

    Toys sorted into corners.

    Tiny socks folded by a pair of hands

    too young to carry the weight he chose to lift.

    He swept not just my floors,

    but the sorrow gathering in my heart.

    He played with the children

    like they were sacred,

    never an inconvenience.

    He called me Big Sister,

    and I trusted him with the title.

    Because he earned it.

    On the day I delivered,

    he became the village.

    Took the children to school,

    dressed them in joy for picture day,

    brought them to the hospital

    to meet their baby brother

    as if ushering in royalty.

    Even after healing,

    he stayed—

    a constant presence

    until graduation carried him

    back to Ethiopia.

    Now, he’s a doctor—

    a healer in name

    as he always was in spirit.

    And though an ocean stretches between us,

    I tell his story like scripture

    to every Ethiopian student I meet.

    I say,

    “There was once a young man named Abera,

    whose kindness held my house together

    when I could not.”

    And they smile,

    because they recognize his name—

    and somehow,

    his spirit, too.

  • She Left Me Light

    (For Christina Lux)

    Some friendships begin

    in language—

    ours did.

    French syllables,

    colonial histories,

    shared passions for voices

    that had survived the fracture of empire.

    She met me

    not just as a colleague,

    but as a guide.

    A quiet cartographer

    mapping the places where my mind

    had not yet dared to go.

    When I struggled,

    she suggested.

    When I doubted,

    she encouraged.

    She handed me books

    like offerings—

    as if to say,

    “Here. I believe in your mind.”

    But Christina wasn’t just intellect.

    She was presence.

    When my body broke under the weight of pain,

    when my children scattered toys and time

    all over the floor of my life,

    she came.

    And helped sweep it all

    into a rhythm again.

    She never said: Let me know if you need anything.

    She simply showed up.

    And later—

    when my dreams widened into job applications,

    she sharpened my sentences,

    dusted off my hope,

    and reminded me that I had every right

    to take up space.

    Now,

    she is a poet—

    in name, in print, in essence.

    She builds lines like bridges

    and lifts others as she climbs.

    When she moved,

    we packed her memories together—

    me, my children, her son—

    tangled in cardboard boxes

    and the sweetness of change.

    She gave me books.

    Stacks of them.

    Their spines now lean against mine

    on my shelves,

    whispering her name

    every time I reach for one.

    And now,

    as I return to my own writing,

    I do it with the echoes of her care.

    Christina,

    you didn’t just help me

    write a dissertation—

    you helped me write a life

    I am proud of.

    You left me words.

    You left me wisdom.

    You left me light.

    • Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

  • Nne Ọha (Mother of Many)

    (For my sister-in-law, my sister by choice)

    They wonder if it’s her
    who shares my blood
    instead of my brother.

    And I smile,
    because they aren’t wrong.

    We met
    when she was just a girl
    falling into love with my brother—
    young, soft-spoken,
    eyes full of promise.

    I opened my door to her,
    not knowing I was also opening my heart
    to a forever kind of sister.

    We’ve never quarreled.
    Not once.
    Because we love with awareness—
    with deep respect,
    gentle honesty,
    and the kind of peace
    that needs no proof.

    When my brother says,
    “Go to her,”
    she never asks,
    “Why?”
    She simply packs her bag,
    boards the plane,
    and steps into my chaos
    like she belongs there.

    Because she does.

    My children call her aunty,
    but what they mean is home.

    She’s braided their joy
    into everyday moments—
    read bedtime stories,
    kissed bruised foreheads,
    taken them trick-or-treating
    while I scribbled chapters
    that would shape our future.

    And when she gave birth,
    I was there—
    not as guest,
    not as friend,
    but as the one who held her hand
    and held her child
    like he was mine too
    because he is

    We’ve danced in hospital waiting rooms,
    watched over my brother as he healed,
    shared kitchens,
    shared laughter,
    shared purpose.

    She keeps me tethered
    to the taste of Nigeria—
    soup steaming in warm bowls,
    stories from home pouring like palm wine
    into this new life of mine.

    She is sweetness wrapped in strength,
    kindness anchored in quiet resolve.

    She is not just a sister-in-law.
    She is Nne Ọha—
    mother of many,
    beloved by all,
    the woman whose heart
    has made my journey
    infinitely lighter.

    • Mary Mba (Ph.D.)

  • My Brother, My Fortress

    (For my brother)

    He is just three years older,
    but somehow
    he’s always felt like the one
    who walked ahead—
    clearing the path,
    watching my back,
    pulling me up when I stumbled
    and pushing me forward when I forgot my worth.

    He is my brother,
    but also
    my father,
    my counselor,
    my reminder that love
    can be tough,
    and still deeply tender.

    There were things I couldn’t tell him.
    Not at first.
    Not the bruises on my soul,
    not the silence in my home,
    not the way I swallowed my pain
    to keep a marriage breathing.

    But when the threat came—
    when my life was no longer a metaphor
    for suffering,
    but truly at risk—
    I told him.

    He called.
    He asked.
    He listened.
    And when the truth dropped like stone,
    he didn’t flinch.

    He didn’t say: Be strong.
    He said: You’re not doing this alone anymore.

    When I was finishing my dissertation,
    and custody papers arrived like another attack,
    he moved mountains—
    sent his wife to my side,
    to hold the children,
    so I could hold the pen
    that would write me into freedom.

    He is oceans away,
    but always right here—
    in every decision,
    every brave step,
    every breath of hope
    I dare to take.

    And even now,
    when things get tight,
    when bills feel louder than prayers,
    he sends help—
    quiet, consistent, unasked.

    He has never failed me.

    My brother.
    My fortress.
    My friend.
    A man who makes being a man
    a thing of beauty.

    • Mary Mba (Ph.D.)