WRITERS FROM NIGERIA
PRESENTED BY TOLUWALOPE GBENGA OGUNLESI & AUGUSTINE NWAKA
--------
CHARLES CHIKA ANIEKWE
Charles Aniekwe is a graduate of Political Science from the Enugu State University of Science and Technology, Enugu, Nigeria. He is a bard and writes philosophical poems. He could be reached at charlyboyc2@yahoo.com
YESTERDAY
OH 'Yesterday.
How fast and quick you pass
Like a Candle out, out it goes
You fast passing takes unaware
Recalling your passage always difficult
You passage hold folk in Awe
Like a child delivered in labour
None could recall your present back.
OH 'Yesterday
Either Goodness or misfortune you must pass
You're here's Today you then's yesterday
Harvest and Work time yours to Draw Near
You run like river through eternity
Till you come and pass none could tell they face
And till you are gone the day won't rest
Shall we ever be free from thy bondage?
OH Yesterday
Folks have oft' tried to change thee
Woefully they failed for you are supreme
Generation through the age has embraced there
Yet from old till now you are still unchanged
Yesterday yesterday what and what are made of?
You may bring fortune or misfortune
Day and Night I will wonder
When will you ever be static always?
----
WHEN THE MONARCH STOOPT'D LOW…
The most faithful, my Damsel
THUS, He Proclaimed around the Kingdom
Jealous of him, The King became
Gold caprice and Jewels to lure her.
Disgruntled and scorned, the servant backs the palace
Disenchanted the highness felt
Days, Weeks, Months all forgotten,
Cruel words, Back the servant again
Menace to condemn parent and bloods
Unless the highness desire to succumb
Thus said the King
Days, Weeks the thought still in her mind
Finally unwittingly she yielded
Day and night pass, Cook crow, still clandestine
The most faithfully my Damsel the highness mocks him
Jaunty, Vivacious the monarch felt
Then the secret unravel
Confession she made to the groom
Forgiveness he tendered, to tame the tyrant he vowed
Antagonism Enmity, Rivals, highness & subject became
Thus the Kingdom apart it set
'Cos the monarch stoop'd low
--------------------
IBUKUNOLU BABARINDE
Ibukun is a student of the University of Ibadan. He is working on his first collection of poetry. He can be reached at poetdave@37.com.
----
IF I WERE YOU
I have not been me
The spillage from a spring
Its flood my brothers cross
Drawn from the blood;fountain
With the umbilical chord lifely-knotted
If I were me
I would cry aloud:
Save this earth
From the peril that consumes
The embryo of unhatched egg
Truly thi is not me
Neither today;my day
I've swallowed a pestle
I can't bend and standing,not consoling
If I were me;
Ovanramwen Nogbaisi
Detesting the white faces
And bore the vile assaults.
But me;
Unborn
Of a mother that splashes
The blood of birth
For the wine of the imperialist.
----
FOR SALE
Heavens for sale
In several market here and there
Who bids the highest?
God of heavens or the devil of the hellish
Who ?
His feet for sale…
His feet aches
And his crutches grows short
Like an amber does in fire
Can he make a day without it
Yet he finds fault in his soul-mate
So he betrays in return:
My crutches will not grow tall
Forcing me to a hard bent
To her lowly self.
Should I keep bending,
No…
I will sell her to the Arabian merchants
Twelve pieces of silver and gold
And when I become old, I can buy a pair
Fairer than my soul-mate
So let the trade continues…
And the trade continues…
An Arabian golden teeth , for my rotten ones
An English blue gloves for our dirty phalanges
Sun shade for my watery eyes
KEKE NAPEP for my lame limps
Upper Volter for my Beans farm..
What else is for sale
Lets sell and buy
But who will buy my hungry stomach.
--------------------
GAD ODOGWU
He is one of the younger poets associated with poetry on nature. He could be reached at gadibongy@yahoo.com
----
MOTHER FREEDOM!
Mother freedom
The net descends
There, it makes its catch
The noose is lowered
Tightened, it repeats itself
The message is driven home
Captivity, slavery!
The last death
Mother freedom
The long match begins
Camels on the dessert terrain
Our nests are stolen
We're bears with missing cubs
Worse still, weak fangs
With what do we search?
Oh, the last death.
Mother freedom!
Massive hunched shoulders
Now they droop, hm, they wag
Like Bingo's appreciative tail
Promising backs see them naked
Like yams, ready to be fried
Moreover, the match continues
Last, last death truthfully!
Mother freedom
Alas! The wind above
It whispers; feverish now, fiercely then.
It approaches, and
Oh! The back is torn.
The torn is cruel.
And the whip wicked.
For the shoulders have groves
Oh, worse last death itself
Mother freedom
A den is reached
And a thorny hedge approached
The inside! Nazi camp of a place…
Ay, who's with us? Any bright…? Hm,
All are dark.
All are dark that see this.
From the womb are we branded
Then it's the last death, mama.
Mother freedom?
A whip and thongs of thistle
Ah, mother freedom, you left us.
I leave you not
The den vomits the owner. His name I-can't-act-for-fear
You wait till he is gone.
The back groans
Shimmering in the sun
Made red by the whip
We still remain Black-A-Moores
Yet freedom, mother of all
Freedom, fertile womb of the dark
Freedom, suffix-name of the chained
Freedom, oh blessed freedom!
We wait, we hope,
For we have life
Let's make do with life
Before the whip's axe
Falls on us
Taking away hopes, life, and dignity
Still we wait,
Mother freedom.
--------------------
TOLU OGUNLESI
Tolu is the author of a collection of poetry LISTEN TO THE GECKOS SINGING FROM A BALCONY, Jacobyte Books, Australia, Oct 2003. His essays have appeared in Hackwriters and The Journal of Contemporary Anglo-Scandinavian Poetry. You can get in touch with him at to4ogunlesi@yahoo.com
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ABEOKUTA
Where were you
When cities Jostled
An atlas of Rumbling Elbows
When I was schemed out
When early I stumbled
And fell
A Geography of Misplacement
When I spread my shell
Amidst
A Coordinate of obese stones
And tears joined hands
In rivery unity
Around and under
The rocks
An Architecture of AncientWonderness
----
SLAVIN'
we slave
under CGPA
for seven years
or eight, post-
graduate degrees
in vacancy technology
exile's path
like hell's
is paved
with good intentions
and doctorates
unlike
power's corridors -
lush carpets
of pain-
stake-
ingly hand-crafted
certi-fake-ates
or we slave
under Oluwole's sun
for an hour
or two
wading
through Harvard's
sprawling campus
on a Lagos side -
walk.
----
IdumaGBOA!
For the victims of the 2003 Idumagbo explosions
They said four men walked
In
Seeking
To deposit some death
Four men,
A bank
And the crisp glory
Of newly-minted death
No they didn't
Said the bank
Lucky Man Monday
Someone recognised him -
What remained of him -
So he dodged a state burial
Others
Beneath the rubble
Sleep
Maybe dead
Maybe alive
Maybe alive now
But far
Too dead
Damn dead
By the time we crawl
Through
In this land
Of crawling carnivals…………..
--------------------
ABAYOMI OGUNWALE
Abayomi is a penultimate year medical student of the University of Ibadan. He can be reached at abayomiogunwale@umpire.com
----
AJANTALA
Ajantala,
Ambassador of ignorant bliss.
Why do you retire so easily, from
These noble tasks of yours?
Will you allow the mangoes rot, un-plucked?
Or watch these birds wallow, undisturbed?
Will you forsake the tadpoles and the other
Treasures of the gutter; in haste?
If only you knew……………..
If only you knew,
What thankless tasks lie ahead of you?
The agony of leaving home; for school,
Impatient 'aunties' and other yet-to-be
Identified bullies; all paid to make your life
Primarily miserable. The clue-less examinations
You'd write; and the horror of losing your early friends,
To gain a secondary torture.
Later, you 'd be expected to tackle much
difficult subjects and people. You definitely won't
Enjoy sitting behind straight-backed desks;
Toiling laboriously, to copy senseless notes;
Or searching for answers to questions that
Were never meant for human contemplation. Try this:
3x +y2 +3x2 +4yx………..and that is just the
Least of them! Not to talk, of the nine demons
of WASC or the numbing experience of JAMB.
Time would not suffice; else, I would have
Talked of the rigors of gaining admission into
Colour-less 'higher' institutions, where 'Aros' fly
By day, and bullets, by night. The draining experience
Of love and the heart gripping, money-depriving,
Much-abused gospel, of a generation in search
Of God.
So Ajantala,
harbinger of ignorance.
Pick up your stick; your lucky sling.
Aim for the juiciest mango on the tree.
Throw your stones with justified impudence.
Roll your tyres, soil those new clothes-that
Your mother loves so very much. And,
When the day is over; saunter home with an
Arrogant swagger. Throw tantrums, until
dinner arrives;then,Wail in gratitude.
Be creative in terror, please.
Put up a terrible but dignified spectacle. First,
For yourself; and then, for us; who
Wish, we knew .
Ajantala is the Nigerian version of Pinnochio.The poem highlights all the challenges every Nigerian boy will face as he grows older. WASC is the school-leaving certificate, while JAMB is the entrance examination into Nigerian universities.
Aro- a slang for psychologically unstable students
--------------------
TOLU OLORUNTOBA
Tolu is a medical student at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria. He also writes fiction. He can be reached at il_capitane@yahoo.com
----
NIGHT MARKET AFTER THE RAIN.
I can't remember when last I saw this market.
This city within the city without the city
My valley of lonely flames and cursing shrieking eyes
We hug and kiss everyone here
Every one is so close here
But no one is smiling.
I had almost forgotten,
You don't walk in this market,
You just lean back and relax
Let the crush bear you
Your feet needn't touch the ground
My beloved Oja ale after the storm
Dolorous onion
The mud is trying almost successfully to climb
to the moon. Or sun.
Level one is the dinner my father will relish tonight
Equal parts okro and pepper and tomatoes and grime
Level two, the mouth crooning Wasiu,
Chanting wares, ultrasopranoing for notice
Teeth beneath a layer of mango juice
And threads and lunch and defiance
But its fingers always miss the eyes,
It hasn't learned to get past
Eyes that belong to
The carbonaceous spirits
Rising from the oil lamps
Tramping and trading in the heaven inches
Above our heads,
Iridiscent djinn haggling then
melting into the night like oil
Spirits that sometimes trade in this very market,
Of which you may be one.
The conductor of this piece
Conjures a frenzy.
He moves with the force of his music
And the sky drops rivulets of his sweat
Opposite card decks
Of wheel barrowers shark into each other
Women with sky scraping valuables
Wade through the crisis, sieving for their babies
And then the pickpockets
Oh how could I ever forget the pickpockets?
They don't like it when you forget them
And in an instant flash of true enlightenment
The cosmos leaps even closer
And locust bean slime flows
Through fresh ridges in my face
----
HOSPITALITY
In the old days we never
Drank the wash hand water our visitors used
But now we are such good hosts
Then we kept our ways
And ourselves to ourselves,
We didn't serve them to them
For their morning tea-and-orange juice
In the old days our fathers
kept their children to themselves
To riddle the nights with their laughter
To tell future grandchildren of past grandfathers
But we sent our sons with him
To learn reggae and rap music
And survival
And when he left our home and hid his chains,
We sent the sons we forgot to give him after him,
To learn english and etiquette and trust
----
CHECKPOINT EXCHANGE
My brothers reduce by the day
And I'm going their way
Not that I mind much
The only good warrior
Is a live one,
So we smile and drive on
The chicken creeps past the fox,
We creep past lightning
Saltant heads salaaming…
But not today…
The black winks
Silver torchlight at me,
Similitudes of my funeral
They mourn for me too,
As their torches x-ray
My contraband laden car
-"Oga, wetin you carry?"
So, shy fingers talk to timid pockets
And are proferred
Immaculately ironed lips
Of trouser pockets
Slurp on honeyed fingers
Torches decide to look the other way,
Or blink shut for an instant
We perform the left handshake
With our dear "anti-crime patrol"
I'm finally learning to smile
Your languid,
Triple-chinned smile
A lonely Fela satirizes
In the corner of my mind
But I leave him be
We manage to escape the room 101s
Of our minds. Its just a dejavu,
We drive on.
----
FIREFLIES AND SHOOTING STARS
They pit the sky again and once more
With their bullets
The mob works furious
Differential calculus
Guns chatter, pepper the walls
Blasts nag still
"Don't walk don't run
don't look down don't look back
the mad mammoth
cow crowd runs and runs…
…their wide, panic streaked
cow eyes staring
But we all groan
In the evident
Coitus interruptus
The raped bravery is dead
It jerks still in
A posthumous reflex
The dust falls…
Swirling dustdevils rain
Little grimreapers
On counters counting fingers and toes
Then a new shot rings out
And we put on our collective
Seven league boots
And jump to the wrong side of half mad
And the red planet grins
At the mad spot on the blue.
Dedicated to those who ran with me on 04-09-03
--------------------
KOLA TUBOSUN
Kola is a student of Linguistics at the University of Ibadan, Nigeria, and a former President of the Union of Campus Journalists. He is the 2002/2003 winner of the University of Ibadan Okigbo Prize for Poetry. His email address is kolatubosun@yahoo.com
----
E=MC2
For Einstein's Relativity and our insensitivity
These blisters of heat strew from the heated source
Of golden dust flakes dancing with the firmament
In the dreary songs of fire.
Translucent crimson crystals
Saunter wildly in nutil hysteria,
Cracking sequentially into intangible elements of being
As they bid their sun adieu.
Let the sun beware!
The aged bubbles of gaseous being
Drop off in gay euphoria of eternal freedom
And death, and the life lights on.
Let the earth beware of this warm embrace of gold
Seeming eternal: The gold subtly melts.
The golden eye gently snores.
These burning blister bubbles
Invoke memories of the seared, stone-dead breeze
That will ever attempt to whisper
Over this tense terrace of tears
When the last nutilized d crimson cocoon
Sparks, and dissolves into smoke.
----
THE EARTH BLEEDS
The earth bleeds
For a generation devoid of conscience
Multiplying and replenishing its flood-ridden
And brimstone-burnt beauty of bestiality.
The land sobs
At the stench of lead
Piercing unutilized hearts of those
We call by the name "tomorrow."
Our ground stinks
With unborn souls of helpless kids
Shut up of their heart cries of life
And vehement rejection of death.
Our souls burn
With the fire and hell of Sodom
At the witnessing of a replay
Of Gomorrah's spite of God.
The firmament screams
To deaf consciences of civilization
Whose belch depletes the age-long barrier
Between us and hell's hot breath
The soil mourns
For its loss of prestige as fertile
When valves of enlightenment draws,
Daily, from its moribund tanks of nature.
Our lives rot
In the euphoria of enlightenment
Where all irons and atoms of discoveries
Turn back to ensure our extinction
----
MY VALENTINE FANTASY
This day reminds of memories of old,
Of words and thoughts and works and tugs of war
It brings back sighs of days of heat and cold
And days we stared and wondered what was more.
The pristine wind brings back your specless face
Adorned in hues and shades of innocence
With thunderclap I see that smile of grace
That went with us under the public lens.
But then I stop to look behind and forth
Since now alone we know, and thus obey.
This transient game will one day gain its worth
When he or she steps in and we nod, "yea"
So till time grimly comes to draw the line,
Let me pretend to dream, and think you mine.
--------------------
DR. AGWU KING UDE
Dr. King Agwu Ude is a Nigerian poet. He lectures in the Department of English at the University of Jos, Nigeria. He is currently on secondment to Fourah Bay College, University of Sierra Leone where he teaches Poetry and Communication Skills. Dr. Ude straddles oral and written poetry. By weeding these two art forms, he succeeds in rekindling the dwindling interest towards this genre - once the most popular, the most refreshing and the most fascinating in traditional African Society.
----
THE REBEL
I don't know who is the rebel
Is he not like Cain
The vicious vaporiser of his brother, Abel
In cold-blooded, innocently slain?
I don't know who is the rebel
Is he not like the pseudo patriot
Who decries the rebel with a yell
But burns homes and maims men; an idiot?
I don't know who is the rebel
Is he not like multi-faceted friend
Whose true identified is a muzzled bell
But surreptitiously stabs form the rear; a friend?
I don't know who is the rebel
Is he the known devil
Who boldly and loudly rings his bell
Before his unmitigated mission of evil?
----
GONE WITH THE WAR
Swiftly, the cloud gathered
Thickly; and turned noontide
Suddenly, to nighttide.
From the arena we fled and scattered.
But Fatmata, we least imagined that
Like bean-seeds in a dry shell
In a harmattan, we're forever torn apart;
And by war, parted permanently.
Honey,
I met you a rosebud
Green and tender,
Thornless and slender,
And I loved you a rosebud
Like a celestial plantlet
I watered you with joy,
Cuddled you like a toy,
And watched you turn scarlet.
But e'er you opened your sleepy eyes
To behold the rays of your rising sun
And e'er you opened your long-sealed lips
For a taste of the nectar of your rosy lips
Your were gone with the war.
Forever gone;
Like a good dream
In a bad day,
Leaving my unbelieving eyes and lips
Wide open and flabbergasted.
Adieu, my love.
--------------------
MGBAFULU CYRIL
Mgbafulu Cyril is a young boy that hails from Ezeagu Local Government Area in Enugu State, Nigeria. After his secondary school, he attended a computer school, Family Support Programme (FSP) Skill Acquisition Centre, Enugu, where he learnt most computer packages.
----
THE CANNIBALS
The animals were endowed with wealth
Which should be shared equally among them
As the farm was filled with grass
So as to sustain hyenas and other herbivores
And also rabbits to get bigger and stronger
Though their belongings got progressively smaller
And that of hyenas grew incessantly higher
While they were chased out of their burrows
And left to the desert where they cannot get grass
Hyenas have claimed to be the key proprietor,
The master of rabbits and superior
Which logically they were not
Having the grass
And quest for the rabbit's flesh
If hyenas should resist them from the key
Let them desist from their life
To quit their running through the holes
Where they searched thoroughly for succour
Which shall come on an abrupt day
To wipe off the tears of rabbits
And live hyenas to regret their lives.
----
ETERNAL JOY
What joy it gives to be a child?
Happy and happier all the while
A child full of life and decency
Always happy and complacent
Like the fragrance from a rich flower
Receiving the breeze of the evening hour
Smiling always like an optimist
Without any stained spot
But when full grown mankind
Enormity and voracity in all his mind
Hearts are marked with black
Sight of the sky wide the more
Suffer and death befall all men
As plant must die to live a life
So as the Great do to rise again
For another new life like a child
Always happy and satisfied
Forever and ever they shall be.
--------------------
NGOZI OKEKE
Ngozi Okeke, married and blessed with three daughters. Ethel Ngozi Okeke is a lecturer in the Division of General Studies Enugu State University of Science and Technology, Enugu, Nigeria.
----
TRIBUTE TO THE BULL
Jungle life came to town
Beast of the wild overran the land
Armless, tame creatures - instant victims -
Were gored, trampled, felled
Some dropped to the dust
Some like birds flew to the mountains
Some scurried to the burrows
The rest, parboiled and pulverised
Adjusted their steps to jungle rhythms
Bull, sovereign of the wild
Your paid pipers cajoled and goaded
You guffawed and puffed
They prowled, looting and raping the land
Jubilant faithfuls fuelling fire
Harvesting hands, heads, limbs, genitals
For sacred sacrifice to the gods
For rejuvenation of the sovereign
Our land bled.
Our blood, mingled with tears, flooded to the sea.
Thankfully, the bull slumped.
The feller and the felled assembled
Before the Supreme Jury
In confusion the paid pipers
Offered their hurried confessions,
"Not I but my master"
"Nor I" went their please
Exact repatriations, O jury
Fall on us, O rain
To induce the sound sleep
That bids farewell to our nightmare
----
THE SURVIVORS
At life's lowest ebb surges a lure to live
Survivors of carnage
Mass of shrunken bodies robed in decrepitude,
Gaunt, jutting bones dispossessed
and numbed with woes
Yet awake to life.
They cluster at the camp - in
cold or heat, in rain or sun
Escaping death, they cling to life
Not lamenting their lack
Nor their treasures once held - all life's
labour - now vanished
Not sorrowing over beloved one
Felled before their eyes for carnivores to mourn
Nor grieving for sweethearts ravished and taken
They are refugees imbued with lure to live
Refugees with a version to extinct.
Diagnosis reveals kwashiorkor
Not HBP, nor stress, nor stroke
Not any such that is the portion
Of the privileged possessors blessed
with peace time.
Somewhere in a corner he sits
With swelling bursting, fluid oozing
The final stage, they say
Assessing the rot that is now his body
He swears:
"Not me - God forbid
Not me … I shall not die
Never - not".
--------------------
CLEMENT MESEKO, KVM.
Clement Meseko, KVM, hails from Okebukum in Kogi State, Nigeria. He holds Doctor of Veterinary Medicine degree from Ahamadu Bello University, Zaria, Nigeria and currently works with Adset Ltd/Livestock Feeds Plc Nigeria.
An arid writer/reader. He is the author of the book, Echoes from the Hills. He could be contracted through his publisher:
Candid Ventures,
8 Obohase Street,
Aduwawa, P.O. Box 3401,
Benin City,
Edo State, Nigeria.
----
THE OLD MAN AND THE HILL
When men set foot
On the same old path
Little was known
Of the infringe ahead
The cold winter wind
To test many a heart
Of which only a couple
Survive.
Yet in the mist
Was found an aged
Defiling grey hair
To rival the youth in stamina
Like an angel
He led the way
To peaks and heights
Caves and groves
Confessed he by act
To be born again
And given the vigour
Of ages gone by
It brought me to tears
Parting with a courage
Scarce among men
Yet in an octogenarian
Look me at tomorrow
That I may yet have strength
For the hills and caves
Even as old as this
----
SPRING
The countryside
Is beautiful in spring
When the weather is clement
With a clear blue sky
And the earth comes alive
When the wind
Changes direction
With pleasantries at its helm
Adieu we say
To life that was cold
In springs
All fauna and flora
Come alive
Blossom of the field
And virile being at work
Nature is
So pleasant
When melodies and scenes
Come in measures
That suites the mood
It is only in spring
Without sweats or chills
The intrigue
Of the in between
--------------------
JUDE EJIOFOR
Jude has been involved in poetry writings from his tender age. He is twenty-one age old and student of Law at the Enugu State University of Science and Technology, Enugu, Nigeria. He lives in Enugu, Nigeria, West Africa, and loves African-American poetry. He has published his works in some dailies in Nigeria. Jude loves writing poems; meeting pals around the world. He could be reached at e-mail: judeejiofor@yahoo.co.uk
----
A SOJOURN WITH THE BEAST
As I watched the mirror, I ask
Though it took me a task.
" What is your mission? "
The answer was without a vision
'cos they saw not my face
My back couldn't retard their mundane pace.
Praying down on bended knee
I cried for their destiny.
Their urbane gait down the aisle
As they walk on all the beauty tile,
Their horded gait to doom
Their blind procession with their bestial groom.
Worried I still look-
Patiently, that my awaited prayer dinner would cook.
The flavorless garnished dust wafts into my nose
Unaromic to my long hungry pose.
" Please, expend your God-given brain! "
" These ", I said, " should be your only strain. "
Riddling in them bullets of advice
For their unseen presaged cries.
----
THE HANDIWORK OF BLESSINGS
We are all dejectedly and long awaited, standing
The impatient are long distance, trekking
Everybody's lucky bus, rushing
The weak are mind mute, crying
The mad men are laughing
In their freedom, insanely sane mocking
Helter-skelter the children are running
Suffering in their daily leading
The grasshopper-minded are at home deliberating
On their days chewing and biting
The endowed "green" is now a desert thing
It has a price, yes a price that's daily accruing
The price is the societies needing.
But why a blessing to a curse- is my pondering
For order, the disturbed resort to burning
Blocking the privileged from moving
The masses are thorny suffering
In dialogue, they shall be abiding.
Fuel- could you cause this pain?
----
HIDDEN TRAIT
If the word discouragement never existed
And people did not discourage others,
Of their pertinacious crave.
Mans crave would be like Babylon
Why Discourager?
You retard mans pace.
It kills and misdirects him in a confluence of his dreams
'cos he's inevitably prey to your 'dirty words' and influence.
Discouragement, please, change and know mans diversity
Encourage him to his dominant dream.
Guide him with your enveloped wise words,
For persistence on his expected reality
Guide him with your walking advice
Along the short lengthy and cavy path
Do not make of him a grasshopper mind
Fruition, should be his focus
Abet him to the crime of knowledge and foresight
Put him in a gaol of study
In his jail term, expecting a sure-fire success
An elixir of joy shall his freedom meet.
His fruition brings knowledge
His fruition brings joy
His fruition may bring ignorance and sorrow
Guide him, for there is still life's unfinished journey.
--------------------
IFEOLUWA FOLARIN
Ifeoluwa was born in Nigeria. She is twenty years old and loves poems. Ifeoluwa lives in Nigeria, where she is schooling at the Enugu State University of Science and Technology, Enugu, Nigeria. Presently, she has written numerous poems to her credit, and she has had some of them published in some universities (universities within Nigeria) magazines. Some of her works too has been used in greeting cards. She could be accessed at e-mail: folarinfeoluwa@yahoo.com
----
TRUE FRIENDS AMONG ALL FRIENDS
The world is made up
Of two sets of friends
There are friends
And there are true friends
You can make one
If you want
All friends hear
But only true friends truly listen…
All friends laugh and joke
With you
But it's only true friends
Who stand by you
When the going
Gets tough
All friends feel
But it's only true friends
That can feel
Your innermost pains
Only true friends offer
You their shoulder to
Lean on when
You need it most
Friends are everywhere
But true friends
Are rare to find
All friends show an atom
Of likeness but only
True friends show real love
No matter the situation
You find yourself
All friends mock you when
You fall or fail but
True friends lend a
Helping hand to pick
You up so that you
Can stand again
All friends stand by you
When everything seems
To be rosy but only
True friends stand
By you when everything
Seems to be abysmal
If you can't make true friends
Then, don't make friends
Who will let you down?
When you need them most.
----
WHAT IS LOVE?
Love is a feeling
That needs to be shared
A world without love
Is better imagined.
Love is a gem
It is the best and greatest
Gift you can
Give to a lonely heart.
Love is a mystery
The more you give
It out to people
The less you
Understand its concept.
Love is powerful
It can change a
Difficult situation just
In a twinkling of an eye.
Love is pure
It is as
Pure as
The water we drink.
Love is life
A life without love
Is an empty entity.
I need love
You need love
The world needs love
To make it a better place
For you and me.
--------------------
AUGUSTINE NWAKA
Augustine was born in Lagos, Nigeria, August 9, 1982. He is a student of Political Science at the Enugu State University of Science and Technology, Enugu, Nigeria. He writes poetry and essays. His works have been widely acclaimed by the Nigerian audience in The Nigerian Observer and Sunday Vanguard respectively, Nigeria. Augustine is working measures to extend the African poetry to the immediate Western countries. He has forty works to his credit. Augustine writes philosophical poems on women, child abuse, nation building, wars, patriotism, youths, politics and friendship. He wants MAG's contributors and interested ones to reach him at e-mail: nwakaaustine@yahoo.com Sharing, writing and meeting pals is his hobbies.
----
AFRICAN WOMEN OF HEROISM
African women of Africa
The heroines of Africa
Women of African- heroism
Women of flawless virtues
Heavyweights of 'heroic heritage'
Virtuous women
Indeed, they are!
They walked to success
At the melodic sound of the canary
They do not rest;
They do not slumber
The African women!
African women of world dream
Are rising to excellence
Matching to zenith…
Gems of Africa;
Drivers of social change they are
In the new Africa!
Icons of Africa dignity!
Intrepid women of Africa,
O African women!
The eyes of the world behold them…
They are giants of the new Africa
--Classic women.
African women of African-heroisms
The world is counting your humours
O women of winsome similes
The whole world similes at their feats
O women of Africanism!
Women with 'stout' might.
Let's curb dreaded diseases,
O African women!
Let's fight human trafficking, child abuses,
O African women!
Fight perpetual poverty, gender inequalities
And other social ills around us,
O African women!
Be philanthropic, O African women!
Ride on, ride on …
O African women of heroism
For the Western World is now your pal.
----
WHY THE LOOMING WAR
When would the globe get rid of war?
Gulf wars were one fought!
Even civil wars within nations were still fought!
Minatory gulf wars on global peace again!
Oh, what a tottering global peace!
War of wars tearing the 'conspicuous peace'
Of the globe!
Why the looming war I say?
Can war still bring global peace?
Can global peace be gained through war?
Hitherto, peace has not be gained through war!
Where is the 'entente' between these countries of peace?
Grudges of the two 'elephant giants 'are
Ravaging the world peace
As ravaging as…
War, not a last resort to peace I say!
They struck peace…
They mused war in their…
What an embattlement of peace!
The dread of mass nuclear weapons of mass
Destruction is terrorizing world peace
Leaping cold war is tolling, tolling and tolling…
Causing disunity of world concord!
Intrigue is torpedoing world peace!
Is the built world peace disappearing again?
Discordant views have plunged the world peace into threat
Oh! The big powers might!
No to war, yes to peace!
No to wars of violence I say!
Another gulf war might not help…
Be true democrats of the globe!
Why the looming war I say?
The renowned amity of the 'contentious countries'
Is disappearing …
Eerie dreads are stalking the Third World countries
Big powers have not proved to be true democrats!
The superiority and the inferiority at daggers drawn!
War, an 'anti-civilization' poses a menace…
Whatever 'sally' by the big powers
Might sent strong waves
To international peace
The odds of this minatory war
Are likely…
Who knows?
He who fights to wear the 'diplomatic diadem'
Is not the superior-nation-of -the nations
The world must learn to bridge peace
Stop dividing the world with war
War, an act of barbarism
Poses a threat to the world peace
Let's declare truce.
--------------------
MODESTUS OGBUEZI
Modestus Ogbuezi is an African Student. He is studying Sociology at a West Africa University, Enugu State University of Science and Technology, Enugu, Nigeria. His poetry is dedicated to lover of African Mythology and cultures. He preaches liberalism and racism against the black. He could be reached at e-mail: nwakaaustine@yahoo.com
----
WHO MADE ME WHITE?
When shall I be black again?
When shall I ever walk bare foot
Upon the rivers of Africa?
Shall I close my eyes and
Never dreamt of my blood
Forever taken to the whiteman's world
In chains and sardin packs?
Showers of sorrows
Fall down like arrows upon
My melancholy hearts,
My tears are forever flowing
That my masters are so cruel
But they are called God's sons.
I shall not hunt or play again
In the wild forest of Africa
For the trees are no more
And my friends kept in zoo,
My tongue is dry
And my cries heard no more
'Cause is forever done
Who made me white?
God sons force me white
Oh! Lord I know
They will never know regret
But let my play be whiteman's ways
And my work be Blackman's brains
For nothing remains but artificial
Culture and ideas of life
Such is the world
My blood being spelt all over
The west never to come back
Forever forgotten to return
I will always cry for you
But here in Africa
They force me white
Lord! I will never forget
Who made me white
Till the judgment day.
--------
EMMANUEL OKONKWO
JUST WHAT IS LIFE
Those who have not really seen,
claim to have;
and those that have;
can not say.
A bundle of problems is what it,s made up of.
for a smooth journey has no fascinating story to tell,
And a life without problems has never been lived
that's its-ups and downs.
The great onesput it in various wats
but,the sand of time it is,
on which all struggle to set foot-prints
some really succeed,others do not.
Time and tide respect no one;
the sunrise can't be hurried;
but,the sun can't be stopped from rising either
thus indeed,life is just a continuos struggle.
--------
EYITEMI EGWUENU
I was born in 1972,in Benin City Nigeria. I graduated from the University of Benin as a Medical Doctor in 1999. I have written three collection of poetry,a collection of short stories though all still unpublished. I am presently a Lecturer in The Faculty of Medicine,Delta State University, Abraka, Nigeria.
FOOTPRINTS
Will it hold
My spirit
As it climbs?
My Soul
As it rides this curl
Of smoke that creeps up the thatch?
Pure, rain washed
Prodding the murk
Probing Erebus,
Sowing light
Vaulted by this rhapsody
A web of notes
Strong within me
Against the Wind
Will it
Hold my Spirit
Will it
My Soul?
As Visions lie
Cremated,
Wombed by impotent
Ash.
Longings withering
In the stale breath of years
As I lay snared
By dreams unlived.
Will these
Offsprings crumble too
A spectre
Of bygone years?
Will the
Footprints grow sunbaked
With no sprout of green?
Therein
Is the dream that strains
The stealth
That stumbled in…. unbidden
To pull
The silent strings
To birth the notes,… to
Rapture me.
--------
A BROKEN HEART
Steadying the course
Of my fruitless meander. Hope. Hopping
On the pulsating rump
Of an embered cloud.
Memory bleeping in a strait mind
Cursing its birth;
The wreckage, a fitting roof
The choice repose
For a gilded shame.
Sinuous recalls, linked
By nothing…by bitterness
Cursing their birth
And craving the sireship
Of gravid dreams.
Prancing reflections, Oghamic
To my conscious mind, lead me on
To thaw this staring brand;
To search
For the hidden nail. The vein.
Barring smiles too early sprung
Whetting caution
On a broken heart.
--------
THE PROMISE
Sitting on tears, waiting for you
Watching nighttime trim its lamps
Entreating the shroud
With stars
Clutched from heaven's breast
Your mute ridge draped
By a mourning shadow.
Sitting on memory, watching the road
From your grave to my door
Priest of the wind gone -
The blizzard rules.
Diamond reflections -
Dew's wool in sun-streaks -
Through my fingers
Sink to the abyss.
Sitting in silence, eyes on the ridge
Listening to whispers
In the wind -
Leaves nodding to bird-songs
Cheering emptiness; An answer,
A way to the stream,
To drain my tears; quench the sorrow.
The road not walked. Footsteps
Awaited, lone scribe
Of Janus.
Quiet -
On the tombstone sits
The Promise.
--------
THE PASSENGER
Hollow halls bleached
To thinness.
Gossamer threading the seams
Of rafters…twisted
And gnarled.
Wool, soiled and sogged,
Weights the essence…goblets
Of decay…lips lifted to
The foaming brim;
Liquor that numbs the soul seeping
Down to the plummage;
Vapid wings, wet with wine.
Slurred heartbeats…the temper
Of a flagging spirit…oil drained…the dying
Lamp…pale apparition of the Self;
To don the cloak of ageless thought
Peas alike in heart and mind;
Woolly borders overlap oblivion…Lost
In the dim recesses of the mind -
No visions seen
A slave of memory.
A gaunt tree…leaves
Fallen by the drought of years.
Chained to rooted rocks;
Liver-meal to the curved beak
As stagnant sludge slugs the vein
Snuff the life.
O the birth of such a death
O the rot of the conformed life
To snugly sleep beneath such scented
Airs
No stir
To imp the Visions.
This altar will tell
In a cloak of red, of orange and of blue.
On knees I await
The washing of the tongues;
The purity of Ash.
--------
THE PASSAGE
Do not blind me with the flames
As you descend
From the black heavens.
Grey upheavals renting the sky
To dark depths;
Balls of dark wool rimmed
With white…churning to surf
In the sky-sea.
Looms in the clouds
Weaving ebony…a cloak
Hovering over the timid earth;
Looming shadows brooding.
Do not blind me as you fall
To the earth to lick
This Sacrifice;
Bright-hot branches, forked tongues
That stoke the crash and rumble.
Wild wind lashing
At the hinds; herding the clouds
To the reign of rain.
Priest at the altar
Bare my Soul; rip
This vessel with the whiplash
Vent the fury as it seethes
On my mould…unzip this robe of clay.
Do not blind me as you fall
Priest at the altar of the sacrifice
Let, the lightning from its leash;
Purge me with the flames.
--------
SEUN ADEGBOYE
SEUN ADEGBOYE was born 26 years ago in lagos, nigeria. he is an undergraduate at the university of ibadan, nigeria. he was a participant in the british council creative writing workshop in lagos, nigeria in september 2003.
A SCORE TO SETTLE
Not again! The voices were discordant, they had woken me up from my fitful sleep, for there had been no electricity for three days. The voices were coming from the backyard. I jumped out of bed and rushed to the backyard.
My eyes took in the whole scene. I was furious when I saw those four troublesome girls encircling my mother. Lolu, that blob of fat with bleached skin was making fun of my mother. She was the ringleader.
Since I came home on vacation, I had noticed that Lolu was always picking a quarrel with my mum over the most trivial things. Mum was a brave woman, but she would tremble in the presence of Lolu. The awful thing about it all was that Lolu was always in the wrong. But for my mother's sake, I would settle the quarrel amicably. I could detect that there was something evil about her. In three days, I would be returning to the campus - what would happen to my mum when I was not around?
I saw Lolu almost poking her finger into my mother's eye. I couldn't take it anymore. Damn the consequences, I thought. I charged into the circle that they formed, standing between Lolu and my mom. Although Lolu was twice my size, albeit shorter, I squared up to her, and stooped so that she could see the rage in my eyes.
"Useless woman! What did my mother do to you? Stop this nonsense! I won't take it easy with you next time I see you harassing her in this house!" She looked at me scornfully. Probably she just saw me as a brat. It was then I noticed the scorpion tattooed on her right shoulder. She must be a member of the notorious scorpion gang. The three other troublesome girls were raining abuses on my head.
My mother tugged at me, her voice tinged with fear. "Kazeem let us go. Leave them alone". I didn't move. "Leave them, let us go," she pleaded again. My warrior instinct told me that it was better to kill a Goliath than face the whole army of the philistines. So I started to leave. I threw a parting shot at Lolu. "I will deal with you."
She reacted like an earthworm with salt poured on its skin. She stamped her feet on the ground furiously, her wrapper falling and exposing her long, flat breasts and her underwear. She picked up the wrapper and wrapped it round her bosom, tucking in the ends. Then she laughed and retorted, "Deal with me? Your mama no born you well!" My body quivered with rage.
It was then one of the girls, Tawa, charged at me. I stopped her with my hands. She croaked: "Who you be? Useless, shameless bastard!" It was unbearable. My mother was sobbing. "Kazeem, leave these troublemakers alone. Let's go, please, let us go!" I heeded her advice. As I turned, I saw the landlord. He must have been watching the whole drama, pretending to be unconcerned. The old goat!
I went back into my room and was trying to remove my trousers when the button snapped. I changed into another pair and stormed past my mother and the landlord. "Kazeem, come back," they called out in unison. I said to them, "Don't try to stop me! This shit has got to stop!" 0I moved on. With each step I took, a certain calm descended on me because I had decided to take action, I would go to the police.
As I got to the police station, I uttered a silent prayer. I knew the reputation of the scorpion gang. They were vicious and brutal, and they didn't spare anyone that dared to cross their path. But I never crossed her path - she crossed mine!
I opened the gate of Moore police station. The policeman beside the gate questioned me. "Wetin you dey find?" I explained to him. He muttered: "Drop 'something'. N200 is not too much. Na so we dey do." I gave him a hundred. Then he showed me the way to the counter.
There I met a fair-skinned policewoman. The fairness looked acquired to me. "Wetin happen?" Her accent betrayed her mid-western origin. I started explaining in 'Queen's English', but then I realised she wasn't getting my explanation, so I changed to Pidgin. She sounded incredulous. "You mean say for your presence she dey curse ya mama?" Her voice was low: "You ready to make case?"
"Yes", I answered impetuously. The other policemen behind the counter looked at me. She continued, "Go bring N2, 000!"
My eyes popped from their sockets. I certainly didn't have that kind of money - I only had N500. I thought one did not have to pay anything. If I didn't get that Lolu woman arrested, I knew I would be in a deep mess. Not that I was exactly sure I would be safe even if she was arrested. I knew I just had to put up some bravado. I did not know what came over me.
"Okay, make I pay N1000."
"No way! The only thing wey I fit do for you be say … hmmm, oya bring N1, 500." There was a note of finality in her voice.
I stood there, befuddled, I decided to press further. "Make I drop N500, when dem catch the woman, I go pay the balance."
"Sorry o! No credit today, come tomorrow!"
I left the counter, dejected. As I returned to the big, brown gate, the policeman there asked. "You don see the counter?" I nodded. Something told me he could be helpful. I explained what transpired at the counter to him.
"But dem no suppose to collect that kin' money - e too much!" he said.
I began to hope.
He continued. "You sure of wetin you dey talk?"
"Yes." I replied. His next statement deflated me. "Why dem no dey share us? Dem go collect that kin' money for counter and e no dey reach us here." I was shattered, and I just slouched out of the station.
***
"What could make you look so sullen this Sunday morning?" My uncle queried. I shuffled my feet on the marbled floor, my back resting on the black leather sofa. "Uncle, it is Lolu, a tenant in our house."
"Tenant?" he asked. "What has she done?"
"She is a member of the scorpion gang, and she harasses my mother."
"The scorpion gang?" He took a deep breath, his fair face turning red. "It is a dangerous gang. I hear they squashed even the dreaded OPC boys in a scuffle at Mushin sometime ago."
My eyes dilated in terror. "OPC? I didn't know that."
My uncle shot me a disapproving look. "But you know that the scorpion gang is dangerous?"
"I thought she was only bluffing until I saw the tattoo on her shoulder." My voice was shaking by this time. "But uncle, I just had to finish what I…"
"Shut up, my friend! You want to die? Or you want my sister dead?" He drew back the sleeve of his blue guinea brocade. His golden wristwatch glistened as he checked his time. "This is 11am. I have to go and meet my family in the church." He gazed into my eyes. "Do you love your mum? If you do, don't push this matter any further. Just go back home and settle with this woman." His tone was dismissive. The conversation had ended.
My sullen mood returned. I walked away from him towards the mahogany door. He called me back and placed some crisp notes into my hand. "Give that to my sister," he said. "And make sure you wash off the grime on your body."
I hadn't taken my bath that morning. I trotted down the street as I counted the crisp notes in my hand. It was exactly N2000. A smile crossed my face. I boarded a taxi from Allen Avenue to Moore Police Station, Yaba. As we moved to the station, my uncle's words reverberated in my head. "Stay out of trouble!" Could this lead to harm for my mum or me? Would there really be reprisals from the gang ?I really don't care now!
I was jolted back to my senses in front of the police station. The policeman was still at the gate.
"You don bring the money?" When I replied in the affirmative. He said. "Make I take my cut now."
I was annoyed, "Let me get to the counter first." The policewoman I had spoken to earlier was still behind the counter. And so were others.
"You don ready now?"
I nodded. "Yes, I don ready."
She came out to meet me through a small, wooden gate, beckoning. "Come here." I followed her into a room near the counter - it was dark and eerie. "Oya bring the money." I gave her a thousand. She refused to take it until I gave her a thousand five hundred.
She counted the money, then handed over a piece of paper and asked me to write a statement. There was hardly space for me to write anything. She detected what was going through my mind.
"Okay, no worry", she said to me and then whispered to another police officer. The officer spoke with an air of authority. "Constable John, come here."
The constable was tall and muscular. The right man for the job, I thought. "Follow this young man," the officer directed, then he turned to me.
"No worry, we go teach am sense." I was glad to leave with the constable. We boarded an 'okada' home. 'This is our house", I told the constable and we alighted.
I led the way. "Her room is the last room by the left."
The constable told me. "Oya knock the door." What if I knocked and she came out, she could be dangerous. I hesitated. "Wetin you dey think? Knock that door." To my relief, she wasn't inside.
"She must be in the backyard."
I could hear my heart beating. Lolu was washing her clothes, her back to me. It was Tawa that spotted me. "Oga", I pointed at her. "The suspects are here." Lolu turned, giving me a look of pure disdain.
"Na your mama be suspect!"
" Useless boy!" Tawa added.
The constable walked casually into their view.
"Ah, aunty, this boy go call police."
Lolu looked straight at me, the plea in her eyes almost throwing me off balance. "Haba Kazeem, I no dey fight with you, now. Even your mama sef know say I no wan fin' trouble. Na people dey push me."
"Shut up!" the constable growled. Lolu was cowering, the plea still in her eyes.
The constable turned to Tawa. "See monkey. Your mouth dey smell sef!" It was as if he wanted to puke on her. "Na dis kin' fine boy you dey abuse?" He turned his attention to Lolu, scrutinizing her. "E be like say fat don block your sense."
Lolu was quaking. "Abeg, oga, oga…"
"Shut up! When I lock you up finish, your head go correct.' He saw the tattoo on her shoulder. "Ehen, so na dis one dey give you power?"
"No oga," her voice was trembling. "So you sef dey for scorpion gang?" There was confusion on her face." No oga,I no dey for scorpion gang. Na fashion I take this one do,"she pointed to the tattoo.
"You sure wetin you dey talk?"
"Oga, na true I dey talk," she was sobbing. I couldn't believe my ears. It appeared like a huge joke. Lolu was about to kneel down for me. "Kazeem, abeg. Na devil push me." I did not expect the notorious Lolu to plead for mercy. The girl had practically turned to jelly. I couldn't wait to call my mother to see this. Even Tawa was on her knees! I called out to mother. She rushed to the scene with fear written all over her face. I saw the fear turn into surprise and she started to laugh.
"So you are this chicken-hearted?" she jeered at Lolu.
I couldn't stop gloating over my 'victory'. Lolu held on to my legs pleadingly, I jerked her hands off my legs violently. She lost her balance and fell.
My mother turned to me. She was smiling. "Kazeem, why did you not tell me you were going to the police?"
"Because I had a score to settle, and I did not want you to stop me".
My mother embraced me fondly.
--------
TOLUWALOPE GBENGA OGUNLESI
TOLUWALOPE GBENGA OGUNLESI was born in 1982 in Edinburgh, Scotland to Nigerian parents. He has lived virtually all his life in Nigeria. He is presently a final year Pharmacy student at The University of Ibadan, Nigeria. He writes poetry and short fiction, plays the bass guitar, and has a million and one other things on his mind he wants to learn how to do.
email : to4ogunlesi@yahoo.com
postal address :
tolulope gbenga ogunlesi
P.M.B 2002, Abeokuta, Ogun state, Nigeria
SOLEMN AVENUE
SOLEMN AVENUE WAS SO CALLED BECAUSE THAT WAS WHAT IT DID TO you, or rather what it made you do. Even the most exuberant gasbag would crumble into a heap of silence whenever the avenue hosted him. It was like being forced at gunpoint to be solemn - by nothing other than the imposing mountains of garbage that stood menacingly along the length of the road like trade fair exhibitions.
After all, this was Lagos, the commercial nerve center of Nigeria, and center of excellence, where everything "excelled" beyond all other states
You didn't even bother to wind your car glass up, if you were in a car. You just held your breath, paralysed, waiting to see if you'd survive. Either that or you were scared that in trying to wind up, you'd forget yourself and breathe.
Solemn avenue was were you'd always find Sam in the evenings, these days.
He walked the length trying to see for how long he could hold his breath, measured of course by where he reached when he gasped and sucked air noisily into his lungs.
He was one of those few souls who ever ventured to walk on the road these days. And that was one reason why he liked it. It was a stark contrast to the choking streets of central Lagos where he used to work.
On most days, he met no walking soul, save the shrinking band of lunatics who loved to play hide and seek amidst the garbage. The saner ones had since relocated.
Solemn avenue was a very interesting area. You wonder why. Simple.
Despite the stench, it was what you'd call a highbrow area. Sorry, not despite the stench, but because of it. Who says God has stopped choosing the stinking things of the earth to confound the designer-perfumed.
Because of the stench, the only set of people rich enough to own shops and offices on the avenue were those rich enough to afford air-conditioners. These a.c's hummed almost twenty four hours a day, seven days a week, as if in a perpetual murmur against the stench. Not only air-conditioners,of course, but also the generating sets to power them when NEPA did its worst.
All the artisans and petty traders had since disappeared, leaving their slots to be fought over by the bourgeois in a modern day scramble for ….. Africa? Sam thought it was just capitalism at work.
And of course, the only persons who came to Solemn Avenue were those rich enough, not only to buy the expensive goods peddled in the shops, but also to own cars that had airconditioners. They would park as close as possible to entrance of whatever store they were going, pause in their cars for a while as though it was raining, build up a sufficient supply of breath, then race past the beckoning arms of the heaps into the comfort of the air-conditioned store. Of course they left their car a.c's running. It was a ritual Sam loved to watch - another reason why he loved the daily walk.
The final reason why he loved Solemn Avenue was its "defiance". He always tried to explain what he meant to people. Few ever understood.
"The avenue is a metaphor" he would say. "A symbol of unyielding defiance." A puzzled look would stare him in the face at this point. He would smile and continue. "for ages the mountains of garbage have defied even the most oppressive solutions of the khaki boys. In an age where the souls of men cower at the sight of green uniforms and the boom of their voices and guns, where even an argument could land you in prison for treason; these mountains have refused to be cowered. They have challenged the khaki boys to marketplace duels; they have seen them come and go. They are the true heroes of freedom's quest, untainted models for the few of us who still dare to fight, albeit discreetly, for deliverance from the angry stomping of jackboots. They are our own statues of liberty, our Robben Island emissaries ……. "
By now whoever he was trying to convince would just shake their head, half in puzzlement, half in boredom, and I daresay (pardon the arithmetic) half in pity, the kind you'd give to a queen's English - speaking lunatic.
That was why, when Sam met Honorable, it seemed as if it was ordained by the powers-that-be in the heavens. At once a fierce flame of friendship sprang up. Honorable seemed to understand him at once. Their minds seemed to come from the same stock - of dust or whatever.
* * * * * *
That evening he had set out for his walk as usual. He was quite pleased with his progress. It wasn't even three months yet since he started - just two months, two weeks, to be precise, from the day he started - which, as he remembered quite vividly was the day after he lost his last job
By now he could walk effortlessly to STYLE CORPORATE CLEANING SERVICE, which by his estimation was …well… quite far. The name of the company slightly amused Sam. He thought it was ambiguous - what exactly did the CORPORATE stand for -was it the company that was 'corporate' or its clients, or was it just part of the company name, as in a cleaning service that was called STYLE CORPORATE.
When he first started, he could go only as far as the office of the Lagos State Waste Management Regiment (which wasn't very far at all) - so called because in the words of the authorities "drastic problems required drastic solutions".
So of course, Sam was pleased with his progress. The motivational books he had been devouring lately had really proved useful. This was the prize of having a 'vision'. With a vision, he was already ahead of …. eighty percent?….of the population….was that the 80 - 20 rule? It was his progress that now began to push him to his present goal. Well, not only his progress. That book he read too, the one about that boy who desperately wanted to enter the Guinness Book of World Records, and after so many unsuccessful tries decided to enter it through eating chips - the fastest chip eater in the world. Sam immediately queried himself for not thinking of that before now.
So that was the goal.
Enter the Guinness Book, of course not for the lungs holding the largest volume of stench, but for the human being able to hold his breath for the longest period of time. And quite obviously, this, apart from staying underwater was practice for the feat. Staying underwater was out of the picture, it was a miracle he was still alive after the bar beach fiasco two years ago.
There was a slight problem though. It was the same problem the boy had - he needed to get the address and attention of the Guinness Book publishers. And who better to ask than a whiteman. He would ask the whiteman who always came to STERLING MEGA STORES every Monday, Wednesday and Sunday evening - the one that came in a Skoda Felicia and wore white T-shirts.
The store smelled nice, like a bathroom just after you came out, provided of course you were using a good soap like Lux, and not green bar soap. Sam thrust his hands into his pockets and pretended to be reading the labels of some bottles of wine. He could feel the eyes of the nearby attendant boring into him. He hoped she didn't see his bare pockets. Maybe he had better remove his hands from his pockets. He didn't like the feel of the bare lining on his fingers. He looked around. Yes - there was the whiteman; at the far end of the aisle, peering closely at the small print on the can.
Dismay washed over Sam as he neared the whiteman. He was Chinese after all. He probably didn't even speak English. Still there was no harm trying. After two false starts, he found his tongue.
"Good evening, Sir"
Silence. Sam saw he was peering at a can of soup.
"Nicee soupee" he offered. The Chinese man looked up and grunted. Good! This was his chance.
"You know the Guinness Book of Records Sir?"
"Guinness? Me - Me like Guinness!" Sam saw a funny glow gathering in his eyes. "Guinness …. moooooore better to Satzenbrau ….. you too take Guinness too ? Ohhhhhh …."
Then he proceeded into an animated monologue in which the only thing Sam understood was his rubbing his stomach and pretending to drain a glass - of beer? - and smacking his lips loudly.
It was then it dawned on Sam he was speaking Chinese.
He cursed his luck and rudely excused himself, leaving behind the acting Chinese and his perplexed shopkeeper audience.
As he neared the exit, he spied a man sitting at a table in a corner, holding a book upright on his untidy table. Sam couldn't miss that title - THE GUINNESS BOOK OF WORLD RECORDS 1982.Never mind it was fifteen years old.
Honorable was a fortyish looking man with eyes that looked like they had resigned to defeat. But his voice instantly seemed to warn you - 'don't believe what my eyes tell you. I may be down, but I'm coming back big.'
He had an unshaven face and his hair showed signs of receeding. Sam thought his shirt looked quite expensive.
They struck up conversation at once, and since his shift was almost over, Sam waited for him and they left together.
* * * * * * *
They sat in the airconditioned bar watching wriggling girls and coloured lights prance across the stage. A short bald man, wearing only an adire sokoto blew angrily into a saxophone. Behind him was his rather crowded band.
"they call this avant garde highlife - a fusion of highlife and jazz, but I call it noise! Trash!" spat honorable in disgust. His forceful way of talking intimidated Sam. Like most Nigerians he seemed to have a stubborn opinion about everything. They'd change their wives before they changed their minds.
"You should listen to Roy Chicago. That is what I call muuusiiiic! These days anyone who can lay his hands on a saxophone thinks he's a musician. They think you can master the sax the way boys brigade bands play trumpets……… I should know, you know……I was band manager for the tweeters, back in thoooooose days.
Tweeters……tweeters………tweeters….yes! Sam could remember them now. He had one of their records, didn't he. He remembered their youthful faces and their soulful melodies, that kept many an owambe going till daybreak. He remembered feeling a little envious of their fame at such a young age. He remembered being cross with his girlfriend at that time, for acting like she was in love with the tweeters. That was what caused their breakup, wasn't it?
"why did you leave" he asked, somewhat absentmindedly.
"the idiots refused to listen to my advice. They had forgotten I had spent almost as much time in showbiz as they had spent on earth. I told them they had to reinvent themselves, create a new style of afrobeat, but no, they wouldn't listen. They were content imitating Fela, but instead singing about love and not dictators. But they were too naïve to see that times were changing, and reinvention was needed - creative destruction - it is called. As Grove would say "only the paranoid survive".
So I left in anger. Six months later, they were history. No one seemed to miss them. And SAP buried them finally. That was when IBB devalued the naira. They couldn't replace their equipment, couldn't raise money for their shows…. It was a tragedy."
Sam just sat quietly, regularly filling his glass downing the contents. The bill was on Honorable. He may be a store officer, but from the little Sam saw, he spent money like a true Honorable. Between them, Sam mentally calculated a bill of two thousand naira so far.
"You're wondering, I know," continued the Honorable, "how the band manager of The Tweeters ends up on Solemn Avenue counting change for mortals and wishing them a nice day…or night?" I'll tell you man. I'll tell you. I made quite some cool money, you know. So I survived without a job for about a year. I just went about frequenting joints and doing some freelancing for Entertainment Weekly. Best time of my like. No f------ job to report to, no f------ teenagers to talk rudely to you. I just lived and spent my money and sired children.
Then the khaki boys come with their transition programme, and I see my opportunity - to serve my country. Humble man of honour that I am, I decide to start from the bottom, and climb up slowly but steadily. I spend the last of my money securing a place for myself in my state house of assembly. We are just about to settle down to the task of nationbuilding and investment recouping, when ……………
"…….The khaki boys strike again" Sam cuts in, then continues "tell you you have failed your chance, they cannot watch you destroy the great Nigeria they have built, they are better nationbuilders. They leave you empty and dry. So, you offer to serve your country, your reward is to be milked dry ………"
The honorable looks at him the way a teacher would eye a pupil who was being unusually brilliant.
"Milked dry" he echoes
"Milked dry" adds Sam
"Dry as khaki"
"Dry as Sahara dust"
"Dry as a cliché"
"Dry as a drunkard's cough"
"Dry dry dry" moans Honorable. Tears assemble in his eyes, as though to wash the defeat away. But they only succeed in magnifying it. He launches into song ………. An eerie but melodious tune that fits into the rhythm of the band's music. Sam begins to fidget, before deciding to plunge into the flow of the chorus.
* * * * * *
Sam stared absentmindedly at the dancing girls, searching for an opportunity to declare his metaphor philosophy. Every time he declared, people's reactions notwithstanding, he felt happy, light, free. He felt intimate with Solemn Avenue, as though it energized him with its defiance.
"Why the Guinness Book obsession" queried the Honorable. A few bottles of his favorite Stout had calmed him down.
"Hmmmm" sighed Sam, proceeding to tell the Honorable his story. The Honorable was thoughtful for a long time. Sam just let his eyes roam nervously, never settling on the Honorable's face.
"So here you are …….. a hardworking advertising executive - a graduate - who does his work diligently and sacrifices his life for a f------ company. One morning your boss - whose daughter was your classmate - invites you to lunch - something he's never done before - and tells you the company is downsizing, because of SAP, and you'll have to leave. Then two months later you hear that the Governor's wife uncle's son has taken your place, with nothing more than a diploma in urban planning……. Just like that!
"Just like that!" sighed Sam
"A miserable gecko routing the almighty agama"
An earthworm coup in the colony of cobras"
"Just like that"
Sam too would like to burst into tears and sing, but he's scared of making a foolish mistake, like being off-key. Besides all the songs he loves disappear suddenly from his mind.
"But then, as you said - a man must always be a man. Striving to conquer, to quiet the tantrums of ego. You lose a job, never your resolve. You rise, a mansion on the ruins of the King's vandalized palace - grander, more magni - loquent. What better way to shame an ex-boss than to find your way into the pages of such Canon, and onto the lips of the world. Then watch them all grovel in the dust at your feet, craving your forgiveness, your recognition …….. like Mandela."
Sam felt a lump in his throat. Nobody ever listened to him like this, not even any of his ex-girlfriends. All they wanted to know was what his plans were - plans for the present; not even the future.
This was his chance to push his luck further and throw in his metaphor philosophy. He organized his words, did a little polishing, dropped some simplistic Anglo-saxon words for their longer Latinate cousins, and searched for his chance to dive, mouth first, without having to worry about the non-initiated and their rude head-shakings.
* * * *
Two figures sway in silence in the orange pool of light from the few unvandalised streetlights. Every now and then they clutch the poles as if to regain balance. They stop at the junction, where a crumbling signboard stands. That was the Government's way of fighting back. They left the signboard of Solemn Avenue to crumble, as if it was in itself the defiant fist of the avenue. Still, in a sense, that was the fist that packed the anger of a suffering nation; a fist that would never wither. The duo stand in reverence before the signboard swaying like a freedom flag. They sing one or two freedom songs, and make a vow that one of these days, they will pay for the repairs of the signboard.
They pass a record store where a TV is mounted facing the street. The network news jingle draws them to join the thirty million who for want of anything more exciting to do other than listening to propaganda and possible coup plots, are glued to their mostly second-hand sets.
The newscaster drones on and on, then the face of the Lagos Governor appears.
"We are putting a final end to the garbage problem in Lagos State" he declares, "starting with Salem Avenue (which by the way is the actual name of Solemn Avenue). We are nailing the coffin of garbage forever." He brandishes a hammer and a grin.
"Your Excellency Sir, how do you intend doing this?" queries a journalist who unfortunately sounds as if the Governor employed him. "we are all aware this is a problem that has defied successive administrations"
"Good question. I just signed a memorandum with a Palestinian company that specializes in producing explosives ….. you are aware they have a suicide bomb industry there….. so this company is coming over next week. They will shut Salem Avenue down for a week and lace the mountains of garbage with explosives, to dislodge them. A metereological investigation has revealed that Lagos will experience a series of strong winds next week. These will help to scatter the dislodged heaps, and we shall be employing ten thousand able-bodied jobless young men and women - otherwise known as area boys and girls - to comb the streets of Lagos and dispose of the dislodged garbage. So you see we shall be killing two birds with one very small stone"
"And how much shall this ingenious idea cost the already overburdened taxpayers, Sir?" This was another journalist. He spoke like the masses paid his salary. In fact, with his cheap tie and lean neck, he looked like them.
"Almost nothing, mister. Almost nothing." The Governor replied, unable to hide the pride in the lucidity and ingenuity of his idea. He looked around at the faces of the journalists as if expecting them to burst into "for he's a jolly good fellow". "The world bank is giving us a loan of just three million dollars for the project payable over the next twenty five years. Wonderful, isn't it?"
A journalist thrusts a mic beneath the drooping cheeks of the Governor and proceeds to congratulate him for "writing his name in the history books of the center of excellence"
Suddenly there is darkness. A power outage, and a sigh of relief from thirty million people, that reverberates across the land.
"I heard his Excellency's wife just got a store on Solemn Avenue" one of the figures whispers to the other.
Together they set off into the cold night.
--------
WAITING FOR THE MESSIAH
MY MIND WASN'T IN A PARTICULARLY EXCITED STATE AT THAT PERIOD. Neither was it in any unusual turmoil. It just existed - silly, vague, wornout, dangling. If there was any melancholy, it was just a thin veneer, - the kind you squeeze out from your toothpaste one week after it actually finished.
In metaphorical terms, my mind was rather like the inside of a Lagos bus. In a Lagos bus, especially at the end of a day's nerve-wracking work, the mood is dull. Here and there you may find some animated chatter or some distressing snoring, but it is an overpowering dullness that webs the air. Maybe not sad, but dull. The driver's assistant is perched listlessly on the engine, staring at a sleepy, drained, helpless mass; the driver's hands are automatedly/automatically switching the gears while his mind roams a million and one identical alleys; limbs too tired to fight for right of way; the engine groaning under the wicked weight of scrapmetal, sighing in a painful falsetto.
That's how my mind was around that period of my life. I had actually been wishing I could unscrew it and leave it to charge in the sun, like a 1.5V battery. Yet I couldn't shake the mood off. And yet a part of me savored it, the way we sometimes savor our own fart
Then the smile………………..
I woke on that fateful day and it was there.
It was fake, like a pansonic TV. The moment I saw it I knew. It looked like it was painted hurriedly on my face by a prankster, like a Caucasian smile on a nigger's lips. The "shade" of the "color" was different to that native to my face. Besides that, it seemed my twisting and turning during sleep had shifted it, till it looked like a misfitting mask.
Energy can neither be created nor destroyed, but is instead transformed from one form to another. So says The First Law of Thermodynamics.
A corollary reads thus: Smiles are only created, they cannot be destroyed. Instead they must be transformed ………………… from one face to another.
This is the story of my one day in my life ………. In actual fact, not just a day - the day. A smile straps itself to my face sometime around dawn. By noon, I have stripped a smile off a face. By evening, the smile I stripped off has crawled back into place. There isn't a trace left of my own smile. Now night looms ahead - a dark, damp tunnel where I am a bat who has lost his powers of perception, with no wings to bear it to safety, till it crumbles …………
I try everything to get rid of the smile. Ten extra minutes scrubbing my face, twenty in front of the mirror, grimacing and frowning endlessly, pulling and tugging at my cheeks and lips. But then time is not really on my side. Not today. My heart skips a beat when I think of what has to be done, what the day holds. I have a task to accomplish. Only one thing is certain - my life will never remain the same again after today, no matter how things turn out.
I dug up an old physiology textbook that once belonged to me, way back when I believed I was destined to be a medical doctor. I needed to refresh my memory about the physiological mechanism of smiles and frowns. You know it takes only so many muscles to smile and only so many to frown.
No knowledge gained is wasted, they say, but it wasn't knowledge that set me free that day. Something else set me free; free from the curse of an unsolicited smile…. No… let me not talk of freedom….. for I wasn't actually set free……… if it can be called freedom, it is the freedom of exchanging a cramped 2ft by 2 police station cell for the spacious courtyard of a maximum security prison.
This story will be told by a narrator, a storyteller, not me. Do you need to know what my task was, what I hoped and schemed to accomplish that day? I don't think so. But at least you are entitled to know how things turned out. I may just be granted the opportunity to speak every now and then, maybe clarify one or two things;……… maybe, maybe not, ……… But this is my veni, vidi,………….. victimi, vanquishi………….
A taxi stands nearby, seeking to fill its bowels. Already there are two people in the backseat, and one person in the front one. The driver pauses his chanting to question the newly arrived man.
"Oga, where?"
The man just shakes his head and turns his face away. His destination is the same as that of the taxi, but he is not going in that taxi. Not because the taxi is in in bad shape. No. It's because he wants to sit alone in the front seat. He doesn't want to sit beside anybody. Not with the multiple layered black cellophane bag he is clutching tightly in his large fists.
Every few seconds he looks at his watch. In an hour or so he should be free, free as a seed escaped out of the snare of a mangled fruit, awaiting a miracle in his life. Ant then nothing, absolutely nothing would make him repeat this sort of act.
He doesn't mind paying the fare for two people - two people sit in the front seat of taxis here in Nigeria, even on long distance journeys. At this moment, paying two hundred naira instead of a hundred means nothing to him. He smiles weakly to himself. (In actual fact he can only smile weakly, because already there is an energy-sapping smile on his face, that doesn't belong to him). He is not this sort of guy, ordinarily, lavishing money on such mundane pleasures as a whole front seat to himself. Countless times he has avoided taxis because there was someone on board who he'd be obliged to pay for (usually a lady or some younger person). Once or twice he has had to jump out of a taxi he had already boarded.
Now here he is, proudly playing with the words he will "impatiently" declare to the next driver on the queue. It'll happen like this:
He will be seated in the front seat, waiting for the four rear occupants to take their places. Then he will wait for the driver to begin to call for the last passenger to join him in the front seat, and at that point, he will chide the driver for "wasting my time" and order him to "enter the car and let us go". Yes. The driver cannot waste his time because of a mere hundred card. He is a man for whom a hundred card means nothing.
He watches the first taxi fill up, then rushes to annex the front seat of the next one, as the agbero hisses "Next turn……… Next turn!"
The bag still lies in his grip, its mouth twisted in his vice-like grip, like a misshapen smile. It rests on the floor between his legs. He looks into the rear mirror, studying the faces of its four occupants. Three men and a woman. He stares at the woman till she senses his gaze and glares at him. Her tribal marks - three bold black strokes on each cheek, near the corner of her mouth - are like pasted whiskers. Combined with her narrowed eyes, he sees a pissed off cat returning his gaze. She chews noisily on gum. The driver keeps glancing at him, probably wondering what the big deal is about the bag.
The taxi speeds on, like Propitiation's grim speeding, every now and then finding itself in the seductive bosom of a pothole, then climbing out slowly like a soul worn out by the pleasure. The man tries to see if there is any regularity to the spacing of the potholes. They all look alike, exaggerated dusty smiles on the black face of the road. Some are unmistakeably cacklings. He imagines the potholes are alive and mobile, leaping deliberately into the taxi's path, then laughing loudly as the taxi rocks its passengers.
He looks into the rear mirror again. The woman and the man on her right (both of them are sandwiched by two men, sentries, each one near the door) are asleep, their heads inclined at impossible angles in the air. Ever now and then a pothole rouses them, they rearrange their heads and slump afresh. He looks for the ubiquitous trail of saliva.
The man at the extreme left corner - a potbellied, balding man in a tight, fading, Satzenbrau t-shirt is battling a TB-like cough. His counterpart on the other side has his face buried in what looks like a vernacular tabloid.
The potholes continue their games, trying endlessly to trip the taxi. He stares out at the greenery, racing past in a perpetual blur, the cars overtaking them, some barely escaping the greedy jaws of an oncoming truck, laden with petrol or plantain.
The sun is retreating, as though battling drowsiness, leaving the wind to rule the air with its deepening smell of rain.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
I didn't even need the ramhorn. Though of course I had been the one to insist on collecting it. When I was a little boy, growing up in Ibadan, just after the civil war, back when Nigeria first began to rehearse what it effortlessly and proudly displays today, a man came to the flat next door and hypnotized the eleven year old boy. The boy was the only one at home, and the stranger made him hand over all his parents' jewellery. If I remember well, the boy fell into a very deep sleep immediately the man left. He slept till midnight (from sometime in the early afternoon) when his parents, alarmed at the oddity of his slumber, woke him. Even the he didn't remember anything until days later when they discovered that the jewellery was missing, and questioned him. He couldn't remember what the man looked like.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
Colour drains from the sky till it is a near-blank canvas of surreal, grey cloud-skeletons. It makes our friend think of negative spaces - negative spaces of nature, …………of soul ……………….and of destiny.
Yes! The negative spaces are the culprits. If only……………..
The taxi slows, approaching a checkpoint of disused tyres and diseased logs. Red-eyed kill n go policemen clutch their well-worn guns menacingly and flag the taxi down. It meanders through the barricades and rolls to a halt. One of the cops peers into the cab, studying the faces of its occupants one by one.
"Everybody out!" he orders. His breath is a cocktail of alcohol, kolanuts and outright bad breath. No one argues, at least not openly. Of course inwardly all the passengers are cursing, staring both angrily and pleadingly at the driver to deliver them from this evil - a twenty naira offering squeezed on the altar of a clenched fist is all the immolation they need.
"Everybody! Only the madam stay!"
The men all file out, grimacing at the pain their joints and bones subject them to as they stretch. Our friend reluctantly lets go of the bag, instinctively cramming it beneath the seat. He steps out of the car to feel a warm trickle snake down his thighs, his heart an angry jack-in-the-box.
The policeman peers intently into the car, as though he were searching for something.
Our friend's heart is now a manic dagger, slashing away shamelessly.
A poem is beginning to sprout amidst the chaos in him, as his eyes catch a broomstick-thin cop urinating some distance away. Poems seem to flock into his mind when his sanity is most suspect…………….sometimes they are his, other times, bits and pieces of verse he has assimilated over a lifetime
an innocent ant-victim dying
in a cold-blooded pool of foam ……
death…….death……. death
"Get inside and go …….. before I change my mind …." The cop orders, squeezing the already rumpled note between his fingers and the barrel of his AK-47. "madam, how are you doing?
"Madam" smiles tentatively, flaunting an array of gold teeth amidst several stained ones. Then her face is suddenly serious.
"I am not doing anything Sah!" she says.
The policeman is first puzzled, then swallows a guffaw, as his attention is drawn to new prey. He sidles away, his potbelly dragging his frame along like a huge tail.
He had been very easy to convince. Very trusting specimen of childhood. I was amazed that in this open-eye age there would still be such trusting kids. His childly lips, like newly minted coins joined his miniature nose to speak surrender.
His name is Kingsley. He is nine. He is polite. He looks very much like my nephew Obaro. I, of course, am Uncle Joe, daddy's colleague at work. No, not daddy's cousin. That would have been more difficult to pull off, or would it?
I showed him the note daddy had written. He offered me a bottle of coke which I hurriedly downed. I told him I was in a hurry (perhaps the only truth I told him). It was at this point that I remembered I hadn't even needed the ramhorn. Thank goodness. I was supposed to lick it thrice and rap some stuff. The moment the medicine-man handed it over to me, a strong smell of saliva hit my nostrils. I surmised the horn was a veteran, especially considering the baba's insistence that I returned it immediately I finished using it.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
It is starting to drizzle. The windscreen wiper bursts into song. whoor-whoooroh-whoor-whooroh-whoor. Oyo is only a short distance away now. Our friend will soon be free, and all'll be right with his world. The arms of the Nigerian law, as you are aware, are chronically arthritic.
He begins to think of all that money can do. money is a defence. He has heard that countless times. Images of miracle services and panting pastors begin to blur and blend into one another in his mind.
The rain gains momentum, soon they are cocooned off in the cab, all the windows rolled up. They are now moving very slowly, the driver constantly wiping at the windscreen with his palms. It is almost impossible to see anything.
The driver swings the steering wheel quite sharply all of a sudden, as though he were avoiding an oncoming car driven by the devil himself.
None of the occupants is aware that that have left the main road, except our friend. The two passengers in the center at the backseat are just rousing, still trying to drain the last drops of sleep from their eyes. The sentries are wide awake, "over-awake" in fact, as though eaten up by raw excitement of some sort. The driver begins to whistle.
"Oga driver, where are we going? We've left the main road ………" our friend speaks up eventually. The driver stops his by now irritatingly tuneless whistling, looks at our friend blankly, then looks away and resumes his whistling, on another key.
Our friend is ashamed of his uncouth suspicion. He tries to redeem himself.
"………….Or is this a shortcut?" Maybe the road ahead is flooded. The driver certainly knows best. After all he plies the route everyday.
The rain is petering out. It has humbled itself into a very light drizzle, and the sun is feeling a fiery rush of adrenaline. Minutes later they advance upon a row of mud huts, looking like huge wet baskets spread out to dry in the sun. A brown, swollen stream wriggles past the huts, and disappears into the adjoining thicket.
"Where be this, Mr man". The woman's voice is unnervingly sharp; harsh. She looks like she's considering grabbing the driver's collar and "locking" him into a near-strangle.
"What nonsense! What arrant nonsense!" bellows the man in the middle. " I leave for Oyo to catch an urgent appointment for five o'clock, and what do I get - I'm driven by some idiot to his village, probably to catch a quick lunch ………. "
A sudden chorus of sharrrrraaaaaaap from the sentries silences him. He stares at them, one after the other, as if making up his mind on some favour he wants to bestow upon them.
The taxi halts just outside the entrance to one of the huts. Darkness glares from the inside, from behind the hole-ridden mat pretending to cover the doorway. Out pours a frail old witch who might as well be blind, deaf and dumb to the presence of the taxi and its occupants. She busies herself with her bustling.
By now the woman occupant of the car is screaming, calling upon messiahs from every conceivable religion - a conglomerate of deities and gods woven together by profuse strands of the most unintelligible glossolalia. She ignores the harsh hushing of the sentries, till they gag her with their fingers.
The nylon-clutching man is paralysed on his seat. His bodily functions all seem to have ceased, like the bland beeping of a life-support machine when its subject has crossed over. He absentmindedly tightens and releases his grip on the bag. His brain - at least the part of it still experiencing skeletal services - is putting two and two together. This is probably how dreams end.
All three of them wait patiently for the ritualists to blow the powder - the "one size fits all" anaesthetic that will render them all instant vegetables.
I've always waited for incontrovertible evidence that bad luck is my middle name. Sometimes you need hard evidence, y'know. The thought had of course always lurked in some remote nook in my mind, a non-intrusive feature of a bleak landscape, somewhat like the proverbial leaf that has been transformed under the "midas" embrace of a bar of soap. Notwithstanding, a constant diet of motivational bullshit has kept the jaws of the lions shut.
I would have been a motivational speaker if not a medical doctor. I ended up being neither. On second thoughts, it's too early to be that emphatic. The cardinal rule of Hope-aholics Anonymous is: it's never too late to become what you will never become. Except of course you are plagued with bad luck. In that case, it's always too late.
"Everybody out" orders one of the men. "only the madam stay" They laugh wildly. Madam is by now a whimpering bundle, then she lapses suddenly into the sereneness of a being who has discovered a mystic hatch through which she has gained the attention of the gods, and is now waiting for their promised deliverance.
The man in the middle is perplexed, his face a brown cliff from which sweat plunges violently. Our friend is lost in a world of his own, still clutching tightly to his bag. He gives his bladder full rein. The sentries disappear into one of the huts.
"Everybody siddon!" screams the driver." Mister, wetin dey yah bag? You dey hollam like say na central bank you carry put for dere."
The man glances back. At the stream. He looks down at the bag.
His limbs fail him. The driver advances towards him, snatches the bag out of his hands, and peeps into it. His face contorts into a fleshy question mark. He upturns the bag. A yellow bundle rolls out. A yellow, soggy bundle. It makes a soft thud on the grass.
It is a further three layers of packaging before the bloody riddle of the contents is solved.
The driver screams, his eyes glazed and inflated with disbelief. The woman pukes and collapses. The man who wants to get to Oyo by five buries his face in his hands. Our friend doesn't notice he has been set free from the smile. His face is expressionless, blank like the flatscreen face of a full moon, with no trace of the stubborn smile that just peeled itself off.
* * * * * * * * * * * *
A young fresh head can fetch its procurer wealth that will last a couple of lifetimes, especially if the babalawo is powerful and experienced enough to access the most bountiful stores of wealth, in the dungeons right beneath the Devil's favorite pillow. Few people are bothered about the price the have to pay for the wealth. A man desperate enough for such wealth doesn't give a damn about how many years the devil will slice from his life as payment, or that he might have to spend the rest of his Saturday nights making love to lunatics to keep the wealth. He doesn't care. At least not in the beginning.
The driver fumbles furiously in his pockets with trembling hands. He is obviously disoriented, as if he were sleepwalking. He keeps glancing at Kingsley, or rather the crudely severed head left of him, lying there on the grass, mute, yet speaking. Maybe it is it he hears ordering him to dip his hands into his pockets. He fishes out a five hundred, and thrusts it at the woman and the man. He orders them to get out "before I open my eyes". They don't remember that they don't even know the way back. It doesn't seem to dawn on him the folly of letting them go. The sentries and the witch are nowhere to be found. They'll arrive later. We wonder what will happen then. The escapees stare at our friend with intense gratitude. He is the Messiah the gods have sent.
The boy's lips part in a sad smile, his blood spreading on the grass in an enlarging circle of vengeance.