24A (July 2010)

The stroll down the street

More pleasant than my last time

With melodies

Of the silent night

Courted by crumbling stones beneath my feet

Dancing on this occasion

With partners of sort

The white transparent cloth of the night

And frozen dull stares of street lamps

It prickles my blood

Drives my purpose to heart

Reminiscence of all that will be

Think, feel, anticipate

And remember the crow’s song

That the night was never untouched

So what lies beyond 24A…

JOS (July 2010)

The morning chill tickles my feet

It’s windy brother wraps my father’s hut

Ignorant of the cock’s familiar song

And the protest of a loyal dog

Its furious fists pound my chest

Yet my resolve will not break

And the black sea in polished foreign pottery

Never to warm my soul

The coloured glass pane still flourishes

Its figures dancing in constant celebration

Telling tales off the black man’s white house

Singing the praise of the white house master

Seated atop the central hill

And at my doorstep blood is spilled

Taken from the gut with remorse

Deaf to the pleading cries of children

Mixed in shrieks of their pained mothers

They rejoice at the flood of innocent blood

Flames of poverty ravage the land

The houses of the people crumble to ashes

No wonder at war’s end

Mother cried out

With hurt in her voice

But their ears were burned deaf

To suffering

Their eyes made blind

To the destruction

And their minds forever barren

To peace and justice

WHO IS MAKOKO (Mar 2010)

The existence of makoko is slurry and blurry

Despite its history, it lacks glory

It folds unto itself for survival

Glorifying its isolation

Leaving only its mouths and anus agape

Its old love its life

It’s young despite its state

Its children bath in the sand dust of its streets

Dancing bashfully in ritual conformity

Calling forth the shit market as the sun sets

It lines of travel spring out of the one omega

Branching out into seemingly abrupt stations of despair

Stations filled with hidden magical routes

Flustered and laid with royal refuse

Its travel lines lined with onlookers, prospects and despair

With fortuitous attempts at trade and success

Casting not a hopeful glance at the rising sun

But singing songs of perspiration and inspiration at the setting sun

Its canals weave lazily under its travel lines

Forming medieval moats

Merging and morphing in uniformity

Its omega is lined with trade and it’s center stuck with commerce

With its habitual transit breaks and lone terminal

As it only land link to the outside world

It spurns the outside world

Taking shelter in its impudence

1st AUGUST, 2010

Sunset and sunrise tell the world time, but not for me. For me time passes and life passes, even the
sands deny me knowledge of time. On my bed I escape into a world of my own, mine alone in this world
of chaos and retribution, where all tales that is soothes. After each tale I open my eyes, one lid, two lids,
one lid, one lid to find if light lies beyond the frail grills not to check time or what the world does, but to
know if I live a tale, to see if my thoughts are real, to see my old sandals bathed in filament light, to
know my real hands, to feel breath on my hairs and then to force my lids closed one lid, one lid, two lids,
one lid and on to spin a new tale.
Sunset and sunrise tell others time,

But not for me.

For me time passes and life passes

And even the sands deny me knowledge of time.

On my bed, I escape into a world of my own,

Mine alone in this world of chaos and retribution,

Where all tales that is soothes.

After each tale I open my eyes,

One lid, two lids, one lid, one lid

To find if light lies beyond the frail grills

Not to check time

Or what the world does,

But to know if I live a tale,

To see if my thoughts are real,

To see if my sole sandals

Bathed in filament light

Still resides where it was left,

To see if my hands are real,

To feel my breath upon my hairs

Then to force my lids close again

One lid, one lid, two lids, one lid

And on to spin a new tale.