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Showing posts from January, 2012

BROKEN GLASS, SPILLED GLUE

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You are the glass From which Men and angels Drank The wine of beauty But now You are broken. I am The sticky glue Spilled From The bottle Of my mother's Blessed womb. Shards Have no worth In their Brokenness And spilled glue Binds Only trampled dust. Shall we Not cleave together That you Might be mended And I Shall find worth again In my stickiness.

DRIFTING HEARTS

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The space- Between our lips- Has grown- Like the dessert- Fawning over green plains- And now our lips are dry- And barren. If I speak- From the murky waters- Of my heart, Would not this dessert grow wider- Knowing as I do- That your heart- Lies no more within your chest. Shall I tell you- To go into his arms- And leave me- To Kiss- The frozen air- While his thieving lips- Embrace the warmness of yours?

COLLARS AND TURBANS

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The history books will remember this noble fight. They will weave a stirring tale of stout hearts- And tell of loud voices that dared to be harts- When bastard bullets ruled the day and the  night. Shall we not tell our children's children this tale- Of how the Collar and the Turban did walk in pair. And the Collar said to the Turban, "Do not despair- For together we shall occupy our land and prevail." Did not the black dogs bite, and their bullets sting, While their errant whips kissed our naked hides- Seeking to break the union of our married prides? Yet we spoke till their ears did with our voice ring. And the books shall not forget too, our brothers- That fell. May they find rest beyond these borders.

OGA JONA, THIS YOUR SUBSIDY...

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Oga Jona, my people dey vex, dem dey hunger. Listen make you hear because we dey provoke. If to say we fit, na Amadioha thunder we for invoke- Because you siddon look as your people dey suffer. We never forget, we still remeber am like yesterday- You tell us story, -story of the time you no get shoe- You say na casava you sef go follow us dey chew, But e neva tey, chameleon don change wetin im say. Now you siddon dey chop million inside ya house, Na here we dey, our mouth still dey chew cassava. We dey wait make air fresh, you bring anoda palaver- Ya subsidy don commot our trouser and our blouse. How we go die for water wen na for river we stand? We go occupy, na here dem born us, na our fada land.

WE SHALL OCCUPY!

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Here they come again with their dusty talismans of old- Worthless coins by which our past and present were sold. Breathing lies, they foul our fresh air and we speak not: For our weary mouths are full of cassava and groundnut. Our pregnancy of ignorance has passed the labor phases- Now we know their incantations, we know the faces. And the rabbit that appeared in their magic hats: From whence it came, we know in our troubled hearts. We have no weapon but our will – like stingless drones. But with tottering feet, nimble limbs and creaking bones- We shall occupy though they gift us with pain and death- For tomorrow must be bought, be it with blood and sweat. We’ll make them dance our tune - for we paid the piper- When our calloused hands wielded the swords of paper.

THE LAND IS OURS TO OCCUPY

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Strangers in the land of our birth, we roam- In the windy streets paved with our gold. Slaves in bondage - by our brothers sold, Where shall we go, where shall we call home? Hunger is un-subsidized, our stomach groans- And our noses revolt with each hopeful whiff. Our heart are occupied with fermented grief- As we die at the foot of their golden thrones. Did he not bear promises of freshened breath- As he came us - and no shoe adorned his feet? Did we not with joy play for him the kingly beat? Feet shoed, he gifts us now with sweetened death. Now beggars in our fathers land, we scavenge- Sheep, Goats and fowls in this animal farm, Cassava we eat, while wheat rots in their barn. Today, we go out, to walk the paths of revenge Occupy the land, let our voices invade their bliss- Tomorrow will bear fruits only if we water it today. So with blood and sweat -death- we shall pay: For that is the currency in the economy of peace.

RUNNING AWAY TO MY FEAR

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I am the sapling - grew under the shade of an oak- Yearning for the boundless warmth of the sun. I am the seed of the oak, afraid to be his father's son. Years have rolled on years and still I cannot unyoke. I feared the man - in the foolishness of my wisdom- Lost in my fear, I ran. Alas, no destination I chose. Now I know. The spiky cactus cannot sire a rose: I ran but in vain - My spikes bear yet the venom. See me now - back at the den from which I fled: In vain, doth the cripple swim against the raging tide. After a fruitless roam, I return - shorn of my pride- Seeking my way in the crooks of the path he led. This man I never wanted to be- the fountain of my tears: Him, I come to - seeking the path out of the valley fears.