The nation without a soul I: The ghouls are haunting us

the sad old man

Sits by the dying embers

Sadly he inspects the flickers

For clues but finds none

He stirs up the ash

Trying to divine

From the patterns of dust 

clues but finds none. 

The young man

Slowly grows old

But his corn field

Is barely enough to

Pay for his sweat

And little is left over for his donkey

Though his effort has been

Strung out from day to day

The rich man is dying

On his water bed

But his gold won’t follow him

And the rats and skulls

Now no longer afraid 

Are nibbling at his toes

And fitting out his robes

As the night comes to

The eyes that flashed green

The sad old man

Can read how the pebbles fall

And he can see the long queue

Of ghouls demanding settlement

Of blood covered by the rich man’s robe

The spirit of young men denied rest

Some day he will call the young man

And tell him his father was rich 

But his oath was bloody. 

revenge will come

revenge will come

but not yet.

you would have forgotten

the sin and the fury,

the impunity and the arrogance.

you would have forgotten 

the songs we sang,

the songs of liberation,

but we will remind you

revenge will surely come

but not yet.

you know heaven won’t send plagues

to make your skin rot in public

nor impalers in white horses

to flay your flesh on the tarmac

but we will remind you.

revenge will definitely come

but not yet

you will not remember

the bullets you sent us

that pierced the lungs

and spattered the brains.

we will find out

where they came from

before we melt them and hand 

to the avengers coming after

but we will remind you.

revenge will meet you

but not yet

enjoy your blood meal today

enjoy your power, today.

you should know

we will dig up your grave

and feed your bones to your children

this revenge will come

but not yet.

bury us by the toll gate

bury us today

by the toll gate

or wherever we fell

to the bullets fired into our backs.

don’t leave our entrails

splattered on the tarmac.

bury us today

below the pavement

where we can continue

to sing our songs of hope

and feel the vibration

of a thousand tyres

reminding us you are still there.

bury us today

by the toll gates

beside where the tellers sit

so we can touch

each note and each receipt

and transmit to you

the reason for our death.

bury us today

by the toll gates

where you pass everyday

we too will pay

our ghostly tolls

to the hands that murdered us

and hear the cries that mourned us.

who.gave.the.order

to shoot

to kill

who.gave.the.order

to seize

the breadth

who.gave.the.order

to maim

to murder

who.gave.the.order

to sacrifice

to plunder

who.gave.the.order

to rob

to rape

who.gave.the.order

to stoke

this anger

who.gave.the.order

the old is dying before the new is born

dry season comes suddenly

in the savannah

though the egrets would have known

and left the cows behind

the duikers would have known

and followed the smell of the river

the wolves would have known

and followed the jumps of the duikers

the cows will wait for the herdsmen

who does not know the seasons 

have changed and the rains will be late

the rains are too late

for the grass that has flowered

to have new growth to cover

the withered stalks broken

by the weight of the grains overweight

from the previous season where the rains

too were overweight.

the old grass is dying

and the herdsmen do not realise it

they wait for the new grass

that should come in the season

even though the season

has followed the river

like the wolves have followed the duiker

and the duiker who  followed the river

as it withdrew slowly back under the caked soil

dry season comes suddenly

to the savannah that cannot run

and the clouds that shade the sun

have left with the season

leaving the sun free to bake the soil

and kill the old grass

before the new is born.

My name is Jimoh

Father,

I did not throw stones

As you told me not to.

I did not burn the fences

Of the detention center

Where legs are broken 

And hair’s shaven for the price of a phone.

I was just an Aaron

Holding up Moses hand

That Joshua may prevail. 

That stranger, Joshua, who asked why legs were being broken,

Why hairs were being shaved

When there was no war that

Has netted hostages nor slaves.

Father,

You can see my eyes

Staring at the sun

As I lie in the street with a bullet in my back.

I did not disgrace you.

I only told them my name is Jimoh

The son of Ishaq,

I am not a slave. 

(Jimoh Ishaq, died in Ogbomosho. Shot by Police during #EndSARS protests. This poem is for him and many others that were injured, brutalised and murdered in these protests in October, 2020 and across the country in the mindless brutality being meted out by police to Nigerians.)

if the protest has no song

The song follows the protest 

From when the hurt was deepest

The song reminds the limbs

That the hurt has an abode

An abode that will yield

First to the rhythm of feet

Matching in unison to the song

Like Jericho of old. 

The song is the last memory

Of the camaraderie  of saying enough

After time has made the hurts

Irrelevant in the middle of bigger hurts

So, let the poet lend his voice

And create a song for this protest

A song to point out who stole the future

And who justified the theft

Who laid waste the hopes

And who stood by feeding the horses. 

This protest will not have nostalgia

If feet do not rhyme in step

With voices hoarse from asking who

Who stole the future

The protest must have a song

To weave the pain into the anger

And join the words and the action

What will the children remember 

If the protest has no song ?

if men were trees

i stood beside the small shed

in front of the busy street

teeming with anxious faces

i stood and watched their 

low whisperings and high pitched laughter

as they worried about

when the task force will come

to uproot their shacks and counters

i sensed their anxiety

and their plans to flee

and come back again

or fight and may be never go back

and never come back

i stood there till it was night

and the darkness hid the voices

and I wonder, what if the men were trees?

Life happens

as we watch the rain

fall gently and then furiously

breaking the branches and

waking the seeds to fall and to sprout

and the floods to carry the soil

and the seeds atop houses and

mountains

life happens

as the cock welcomes

the sun to the brightening day

with crows deep throated with relief

that the night did not refuse to retire

life happens

as the old are replaced with the new

sometimes slowly and sometimes with

struggles and violence and loud bleating

as the cycle of life returns to where it started

and the memories are questioned by the realities

life happens

as we watch the hopes and the plans 

and wonder whether we made them or 

whether they made us 

as we see those consequences stray

and begat offsprings we did not count

life happens.

Silent Walls

They stand 

At same spot I saw them yesterday

Though the wind has been cold and biting

Though the sun has briefly made her way across the four sky

They stand 

At the same spot I leant on them yesterday

Though their shadows have grown and rotated around their base

Though more of us lean on them now hanging our distress on their slick facades

What confessions

Would they have heard

In sunny afternoons as they stand with neither a frown nor a smile not even a shrug 

Or may be they chuckle

Inside their concrete hollows

at the ephemerality of those who lean on them

to cry and vow and pass by.

Down the alley

Down the alley we will walk

Two old birds

Seeking out old haunts 

Old memories that remind us

Of when we were young

Down the alley

Hand in hand

Looking into the  bakers shelf 

And sharing a pie

Smiling into the broken meal

And stealing looks over mouthfuls

Down the alley we we will remember

that time when passions ran hot

and our blood ran riot

when the flowers seemed especially talkative

on errands

Down the alley

nothing more to take our attention

just two old birds

seeking remembrance.

A voice crying in the wilderness

There is a voice crying in the wilderness

standing atop the salt petre slabs

distilled from tears shed over time

tears shed in anguish

There is a voice crying in the wilderness 

Peering out from the hulk

Of abandoned private jets

Sitting out their lives amid the dunes and scorching sun

There is a voice crying in the wilderness

There are wolves howling at the moon

There are owls wailing forlornly in the dusk that never ends

There is a voice crying in the wilderness

Asking what shall it all profit a man?

Which smell is that of rain?

The leaves are a thirsty mat

For tired feet and scurrying paws

Seeking shelter beneath the cashew tree

A lone cashew tree stranded in the abandoned farm

Alone amongst the charred earth

All bare to the drying rays.

The leaves are cool to our calloused feet

Silently parting with dignified swish and crumble

Trying and failing to keep the silence of a hot bare day. 

We don’t come out to watch the corn wave in the breeze

They are long gone

We don’t come out to scare the crows and the weaver birds

They are long gone

In search of green shoots further afield.

Further than we can see across the empty fields

Further than we can see from the hilltop beside the dry well.

The sky is clear

And silent.

Beneath the cashew tree, we seat and count the days from the last rain fall

We have counted with stones laid in spiral

We have counted with lines and crosses

As the sun comes each day

And the leaves make a bigger mat

And shyly leave the shadow of the tree

Whispering in the wind across the field. 

The field now abandoned around

The cashew tree stranded with us in the afternoon heat

We should not have murdered the rain makers.

We know.

We should not have taxed the farmer.

We know.

We should not have cut the trees.

We know.

We should not have built the castle

That one of a million bricks

Hollowed our of the fields

And burnt with the charcoal from our tree trunks.

The castle too stands alone and scared

As we all seat beneath the cashew tree

And count the days since the last rain.

Our eyes are on the road

But no look out is running over the hills with a wet shirt

So we sit and look at each other

And look at the leaves

And the dry field

And think of which smell is that of rain. 

three doves and a pigeon

Three doves and a pigeon 

Sit in the dusk

by my roof top

Carefully they stand on one leg

One after the other and scratch their belly

Then flush their feathers and settle down

To watch the dust breaking the dying rays into strings of pearls

One calls her mate and flies off without a good bye. 

One grooms her mate standing with her on the ledge

And the pigeon leaves without a word. 

The dust and the dusk

Carve their shadows in the still air

Slowly dissolving as the night catches up with the dew

I go away wondering why the pigeon did not say good bye. 

meet me where the traffic jams

Meet me I said

Where the traffic jams 

before the junction that

leads to your house

Yes, that junction

mid way across the express way

where the cars stretch far to your left

and the trucks stretch far to your right

Meet me there at noon or maybe midnight

because I can’t say for sure

when my body will get there

My spirit will be sitting by the traffic light

taking in the honking of desperation

and laughing at the rush to go

and then to stay and backup

and jam the traffic

Meet me I said

When you have counted

a thousand cars lined up

starting from the bus stop

That one where the fight does not stop

Don’t ask questions of the poor souls

counting the hours seeping from their lives

They may take you for the cause

of the traffic that jams

Meet me I said

When I have swum through this flood

to get to your junction

and bring a balm for my nerves

And  a cold towel

to call my spirit back from where he sits

grinning at the race that continues tomorrow 

Meet me I said

Where the traffic jams.

My muse was left behind in the battlefield

They asked me for a praise song

For a warrior coming home 

With trophied skulls

To talk about the strength of his arm

The roar of his voice

And the majesty of his steps

They asked me to remind us

Of his peerless lineage

His father of the one eye fame

His grand father that took down an elephant by himself

How many heads decorates his walls

Trophies from many conquests

They asked me if I had forgotten

The leaves shake when he passes

The Iroko stands at attention at his command 

How he commands the eagles and the dogs.

I think of the words to use

The rhythm to lay out

As each word fits into the call of the flute

And the persistence of the ogene

I think of the warrior in full flight

Eyes bulging 

Heart heaving

Sword severing heads

Feet trampling blood and guts

And the small voice crying out for her mother.

I see the wizened dibia 

Dancing around the medicine pot

Filled with leaves, skulls and entrails

Of eagles, monkeys and slaves

I could picture the warriors emerging from the pots

Sweating and fortified 

Against arrow, blade and the cry of babies. 

They ask me what I am waiting for

That the parade was at hand

That last years songs were for a different battle

That my songs was the missing feather

To fan blood of men

Too scared to jump into the fortifying pot

But now overjoyed to welcome 

Our warriors with the skulls and splattered entrails.

I want to tell them that my muse

Went to battle too

Without dancing in the medicine pot.

That my muse was left behind in the battle field.

My muse stayed back to bury the dead

My muse was looking for the homesteads of the dead 

To return their swords and shields

And my muse could not leave the starving dog

Barking beside his burnt kennel.

And now the words refuse to come out

Will silence rhyme with the beat of the drums?

My stutter does rhyme with the welcoming cannons

But my tongue is stuck to my palate .

My muse is left behind in the battle field

How do I now sing for the victors?

money leaves a shadow

money leaves a shadow

etched in its path 

from hand to hand.

you can sometimes see it

in the peeling paints

beside the rusting metal cladding

of abandoned mansions

now housing those

whose palms have peeled

in the shadow of money.

You can see the shadow

and its footprints

slowly crystallising out of 

hearts crushed in pursuit.

you may  measure your

footprints

against those left behind

by money’s shadow in quick drying cement

and slow sucking quicksand.

you may even be light of foot

and flit along with the quick dashing shadows

from the hands left in furtive places.

money leaves a shadow

that follows around

asking for a fitting without a shoe.

Without a shape to fit

Money meanders in and out of the shadows 

Evading some hands

Grasping others and bestowing others

But money is just a shadow

Without a breadth and without a smile

Money leaves a shadow

With footsteps

Etched in the morning beach

Waiting for the waves to crash 

And fill in the etches

With water and sand and detritus from further afield. 

Leaving no trace of who passed here. 

Heaven is so far

Heaven is yet so far

But near enough for us to hear their

Dinner table discussions.

We can see the order of their serving 

And place ourselves between the dishes and the servers,

And when we prefer , we can procure our own seat.

Heaven is so far

And yet so near

We can write down what the deity said

And take the ignorance of others

As a failing in the grace dispensed from above.

So follow now the twisting highway 

To heaven so far and yet so near

So we know what tomorrow will say

And what the mute says behind his frown.

Heaven is so far and yet so near to the initiate

And the initiates alone

Who have eaten at the celestial tables

Yet hunger for carrion and caviar, 

Heaven is so far and yet so near. 

And we know the paths

To get there

The portions to swallow

And the traps to set

Because the table is limited

Though the course runs

For much longer

Heaven is so far and yet so near

That we know we will get there

But never know when we get there

Because we get hungry after each feast

And age after each sitting. 

The Day walks into the sunset

With arms folded behind his back

the day walks into the sunset

his shadow growing with each step

reaching behind to drag

each untethered thought

over the hills

in pursuit of  the dying rays.

the day hesitates at the foot of the hill

thinks of turning back

to complete the loving 

that still heaves in the street

or to move the piece on the chess board

outside the balcony

where he played with the falcons

and the falconers seeking advantage

but the sun is dying

behind the hills

and the weight of the shadows

and her bag of loves and hates and in betweens

drags on his feet.

the day crawls up the hill

over the horizon

just in time to sadly drop

into the inkiness that has come

and swallowed the dying sun.

If I knew you were coming

i opened the door

to your knock

but I did not know you were coming

i was not even sure i heard the knock

softly tapping out our code

like the wind coming to gossip

i opened the door 

to your knock

without throwing on a robe

nor covering those scars

you hate so much

the room is still dark

and I can smell your presence

though your silhouette casts no shadow

and i don’t know if your face is grim

i did not know you were coming

so you will not find all of us at home

logic does not know you exist

he has gone to build a house

another house without doors

so you do not have to knock

when you visit 

emotion is still asleep 

the day has taken a toll

so it is only me, who is not sure who i am

and I did not know you were coming

If I knew you were coming

i would have practiced how to open the door

and offer you a chair facing the window

drawn the curtains hiding the street

so the early morning sun

will dispel the darkness

and remove the silhouette around your face

i would know what greetings to say

and whether to send for a sermon or a smoke

from the little shop down the street

if only I knew you were coming today.

Wake up little bean

wake up little bean

shrug off the earth

that has buried you alive

pierce the shroud

with your sprout 

before the sun chases the dew

away from gathering on the tip

wake up little bean

let me measure how fast you will grow

till your stem is strong enough

and your leaves broad enough

to carry us beyond

the giants reach

wake up little bean

and stretch your roots

amongst the soft earth

that has waited for your coming

pierce it through and through

to support your girth

that will carry us 

beyond the stars and back again

search out the food

stored in the death

of leaves and beans

of former lives

wake up little bean

you are the last that we have.