Poems

Yesterday
I felt the tears twinkle
beneath my eyelids
on our way home
passing colorful billboards about Maggie

Maggie in rice (Osikapa)
Maggie makes everything taste great

It swirls inside and I contain it like a rainstorm
pushing it back home
for it is too early to rain tonight

Untitled
I feel alive
I feel home
the pomade of my heart coaxes my nerve
to relax the beating arteries
polluted and clogged with learned capitalism
suffocates the breathing pipe
I hear the pound of the pain as a cock's laughter
as the bloodshot eyes before its death
as the bleeding of broken skin
and torn feeling which overwhelms its existence

But I know that the heart will ease
and clam just like the sway of the palm trees
on this evening
as the clothes drips for next day wearing
the corridor of splintered heart bleeds
I hear the voice of joy
I see the cock tout around the yard in search of food
something is out there and I am reminded
of the breeze of Lagosian night
and the pale washed color of living buildings
to recapture and to settle down to normality

I have heard stories and in between laughter
the reminiscent of past relatives, their run
dead resuscitated memories that sustains us for who we are
I know that time is different just as the red gate with bold down padlock
It is changing time in Lagos
as I watch the mulched concrete in front of me
I am aware of the existence
of the reality that was once familiar to me
that now makes me utter
I am suffering from long time no see

Returning
Trying times in Lagos leads one to Mr. Biggs
on a busy afternoon
when feet run loose on hot road
when young conductors yell in Pidgin
Ala-la-la,
ala-la-la
Oshodi…Oshodi
ala-la-la

I wander inside myself as my inside inhale the outside scene
waiting for a loud mouth
speaking broken English
which begin with "Abeg"
to ruddily awaken me

That I am conscious of what I look like
how I sound
I know that the tint of America's in my 'Suave' deodorant permeates in Lagos
as Nigerians watch
they can smell foreignness

I am here
getting in synch

Mr. Biggs blasts Americana from the jukebox
a complementary card at the table
I wait and think
I sip Fanta
or so carefully
I sip
watching
waiting
as my feet stepped outside
I am amidst all chaos
that I crave to
awaken a sleeping hollow

Yesterday in Biafra
The clothes I peg on iron wire
to hang dry lay wet
it drips on the ground

As children play inside
the wardrobe
without any care

I ran outside for water
running my furious feet against the angry sand
that have soaked up human blood
with two pails in my hand
I run
first dip the green
only to see the water red

the machine guns sings the tune of angry boogie men
louder
the sound of the children fades

The shelling fell like rain
on unprotected heads
I forgot the umbrella
to save myself against the boogie men of war
the machine guns sings the tune of men
who in time of war have forgotten about humanity

Untitled
Nameless women
thousands of feet
descend down Isiokwe Road
to leave Onitsha

Women whose husband
have surfaced from the forest
marching behind their wives
with babies on their back

They march
as husbands weep
wrapper around
thick black hips
wipes the tears of grown men

They march
unfolding the pages of life
as chants of war filled anger
gave life to the road
with each stomping feet
suffocating the concrete
comforting the pierce
cries of babies

They march
with whispers of hushed talk
darkens the sunny sky

a woman stands on her porch
watches
refuses to run

hushed talk
rises louder

this woman is not running
she is brave

They march
to the abyss of 'morrow
pass the semen of Nigerian army
to the rape of Igbo women
Hausa able men chase
young Igbo women
to educate them in their as-Salam-u-'Alaikum

They march
pass the corruption of a leader
who sleeps with the enemy
to cover his sins

They march
pass youths
pass Ojukwu's half fill dream
of Biafra

They march
pass young soldiers
dead bodies
lying on the road
bushkill
mankill
Igbo is murdered

They march
pass sticks jammed
in vaginas
pass mothers scream
"It is Baba. Baba killed my daughter."

They march
pass soldiers
whose saliva is blood
pass broken promises
pass "We are trying"
not enough to save me
from the stronghold of Hausa

They march
pass "Dalu Madam"
pass kwashiorkor children
pass old women on death mats
pass young girls that will soon become the property of war

They march
above the tired road
that ached for rest
playing hide and go seek
with husbands that will carry more babies

They march
march women
tell Ojukwu
that we came
tell Gowan
that we saw

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