THEY COME YET WITHOUT SHAME
They come without a single shame
They never come
with one
They come rest
assured of success
Because they
cannot fail
Not with the
bags of naira notes
Given generously
To those men
ready to thumbprint
Against the gods’
logos
Your life of
misery though age long
Will soon become
a myth
Soon will you
turn fresh and robust
You won’t
regret your vote
Eggheads will
flood your families
Because education
Will not be far
from the grass root
All your children
will smile
Communication
lines will reach
Even those in
ghettos
The world will
become a village
To the people
I serve
So they breathe
streams of promises
As palpable as
smoke
And when the
polls draw near again
They come yet
without shame
THE VOICE
The voice of
the parrot crying in the air
Prepare the way
for His Excellency
Make clean and
majestic his path
Destroy the old
woman’s tripod near the road
Lest she pours
hot Akara oil on His Excellency
Remove out of
sight the roadside tables
Those peppers,
tomatoes, onion, fish and ugu
Surely will mar
His Excellency’s sightseeing
Will ruin his
excursion
Their tattered
clothes and dirty bodies
Will detract
His Excellency’s majestic benevolence
Do this and receive
via the radio
His Excellency’s
generous donations
To those he serves.
ALONE HE WENT
TO JAIL
He came around
with a new bike
‘It is
mine,’ he claims
But how he got
it was not known
Even to dad and
mum
Everybody saw
his talent
And all, his
praises sang
Some saw themselves
as nincompoops
Because they’ve
got no bike
The next hour
the police came
Their quest a
stolen bike
And all at once
his grace denied
Alone he went
to jail.
DEATH
When life seems
blissful
And worry far
off
When friends
palliate loneliness
And the world
turns rosy
You strike
Punctuating the
aura of freedom
Instilling fear
of the next minute
In mortals
You make life
worthless
And vague the
essence of living
The shock of
your strike
Lingers long
after your visit
Was that body
ever whole?
Did it smile
in good company?
Did it…?
So will all mortals
one day be
II
Kings and slaves
to you must bow
And same for
the young and old
The nearer your
target
The sharper the
pains
The greater the
loss
The bigger the
vacuum
Look if you can
at the faces of the bereaved
And spell the
conscience
That hatches
another visit
The certainty
of your cut
Makes no less
the pains
Now we live with
memories
Of days together
spent
Today fresh like
a fresh cut
Tomorrow faint
like smoke
Memories that
die when our bodies
Lose their substance.
KADUNA MARCH {2000)
Heads were plucked
from their roots
Like mango fruits
Stomachs were
designed the way
A farmer does
his cocoa pods
With his machete
Oh!
The irony of
acid and alkaline
Who are these
migrants?
What festivity
calls for such traveling?
Christmas? Sallah?
They don’t
come with eyes
Short of brine
Nor with mouths
tired of wailing
Producing only
loud whispers
There are no
eating and drinking
No love songs
and sweet dreams
But scenes of
children
Relishing the
image of their father
Showing the heavens
The content of
his bowel
Of fathers savouring
the sight
Of beloved ones
Succumbing to
the embrace
Of “go-to-hell”
Of wives widowed
In their honeymoon
Of elders performing
The funeral rites
Of the younger
generation
Of natives stranger-like
Enjoying the
ducks’ company
In the market
square
While the clock
chimes!
Oh!
The gains of
religious nationalism
Of the peace-fight
between
Peace-preaching
institutions.
