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.