Showing posts from June, 2011


I look at the man screaming at my feet, my prisoner, grinning grin as he groans. You might wonder why he groans. He is simply in pain. I have just chopped off his legs. His hands will be next.  Before the chopping, I purged the evil out of him with my late mother’s pestle. He is bleeding profusely, a human pulp that would have a few years before drawn tears from my eyes. Yes, let him groan. My people did not even have the luxury of a final groan before his ilk snuffed their candles. Can anyone say I’m not justified? Can any right thinking man ever convince my conscience that it has erred? Who can say what I have done, and will do again, is wrong? Let him come and I’ll show him that the timid tortoise was not created without teeth. I still remember it all like it happened yesterday. Yes I remember the night of darkness, when everyone was taken away from me. That one night when I lost all that mattered. … The crickets were composing a ragged tune that moonless


i am the son of my mother the child of my father i am the creation of my creator an offspring of nature i am the voice of the silent i speak their intent i am the finger crushing the weevil i blunt the barbs of evil i am the ear of the deaf i hear not for my self i am the snake in the grass i strike the evil ones who pass i am the dove that coots in the silent cove i am the pied piper my tunes tames the viper i am just a man like me if you can i like me as i be just let me be me!


Little Suleiman, no more than five years old, climbs up and down the overhead bridge in a carefree manner seemingly at ease with the environment. He seems oblivious of the wild honking of the ‘Danfo’ drivers and the gruff voices of the ‘ agberos ’ calling passengers to their vehicles. As he plays, a woman beckons him and hands over a 50 naira note to him. Elated, he dashes down the bridge and under where many women, children and babies are sitting. The place is the overhead bridge in Mararaba town, Nasarawa state. The area around and under the bridge is very dirty. The ground is littered with refuse, food remnants and the ever present pure water sachets. An open, foul smelling gutter flows behind the bridge. It is a very noisy place with the honking of the vehicles and the shouts of the ‘ agberos’ as well as the loud music coming from loudspeakers around the place create a cacophony of sounds. Pick pockets and their likes find it a very agreeable place. There is hardly a da