Am I a writer or pseudo?

By Hajarah Adokutu After Samuel Adeyemi’s November ends The promise of mist fogs up the sky. The hot lantern lends all warmth to the day. The humid breeze teases prayers from flaky lips. The moon watches as cold bodies swat at bloodthirsty whines.  Anticipation bites down hard on the corner part of the tongue, the blood drawn is a sacrifice; a plea against undeserving spike of prices.  “One of you will betray me” The blood declares “Will it be me?” Fuel asks.  The blood from this tongue won't cover the tolls the road demands. Accidents, bodies, baggage and homecoming gifts are strewn by the road side. Unseeing eyes sees the promise of the new year in its glazed sights.     End of the year parties try to brighten the memories of the previous months. Yuletide chickens lazily run but the meat knows it can't escape the butcher's knife. Familiar and familial faces hide the horror behind their smiles. A banger blast behind the bushes, all ears strain to hear any ...