L'etat cest moi

If you didn't know

You should've asked

Which tree stood above the forest

Which roots reach into every stream

Which stem bestrode the paths

And collected tribute from all that dare pass

It is me of course

Whose arms holds power

Like ogun holds thunder

Swinging it from the ends of heaven

To the ends of earth 

Looking for who dares

Who dares to question 

My iron grasp

Yes, it is I

With the capital letter

The one whose name is only

Whispered in fear and 

In gratitude

Whose favors buy men

And their wives 

Whose rites bind their tongues and their morals

If you had asked

They would have told you

That the law is what I say

And when I say it

That I may be flesh but more than flesh

You would've learnt that

I swat irritations with a hammer

And dare even the earth to cry

L'etat cest moi

In all my grandeurs 

My golden robes

My mighty stead's 

My opulent meals

My, my , mine. 

Letters to Mie 3

Dear Mie,

In this town 

In this place 

of clear skies and 

green fields lies a promise 

a pact we made

in the evening of our consummation

In this town 

In this place

of dusty side paths and dry taps lies a pledge 

a pact we made

in the heat of our passion 

In this town of slaves and slavers

lies the remains of a blood pact that bind us with hopes

to the adulation of a puppet show 

do not wait 

for the ressurection 

do not wait for the restoration

In this town 

In this place

of broken pledges lies a precision 

the threads of duty 

that bind us to the hopes of intellectual dreams

In this town 

In this place 

of beautiful promise

made in the heat of ignorance

In this town 

of roaming spirits 

and portly goblins

lie a promise of egg shells 

to be broken

do not ask

of our kisses below the altar 

do not ask 

of our manifestoes delivered 

in the shadow of a promise!

In this town 

In this place 

of multi billion tricycles 

and NO VACANCY signs 

lies a hammer to crush

packages of idealized manifestoes

and spill rejection into 

the eyes of stupefied reason

In this town 

of regulated dressing 

lies an antidote to the infatuation of our promise

do not come 

to seek the pleasures 

we once shared

do not hurry to spread 

your legs to the ruins of our vigour!

In this town 

In this place

of gates and rules 

and tick infested floors 

lies the grave of remembered pleasures 

of remembered pledges 

in this place of official amnesia lies the eternity 

of ill- used words.

Elegy to the unknown soldier

my valiant one

when you are summoned 

to the ancestral council 

look them straight in the eye 

tell them of the day

the Eke day in the dry season the market was full 

old women and batskins

young men, tales and lewd songs 

maidens, mothers and palm oil

ask the ancestors

don't you know war has come to us 

and now we fight without parley?

tell them

war came to us

in the heat of the dry season when the art of bow stringing had faded in the euphoria of mirrors and jaded beads 

war speared our maiden folk

and spattered the blood of their honour 

on the filthy khaki of your brigade 

your new age mates brimming with bloodlust 

like a sow in heat.

tell them

that war has ripped our innocence 

with savage yanks of blunt bayonets 

and we have learnt

the sweet taste of human flesh ,

that we have learnt to bury our living

within the footprints of black boots

tell them my valiant one 

we have learnt 

to devour our brothhers 

and the coffins are empty

the warriors that raped our lineage are strangers,

strangers in heaven.

O Night

 Night

0 night

consecrate me with the dews of your silence 

distil from the ripeness of your stillness 

incense for your altar.

O night

lay your leaden blanket gently 

on bare breast offsprings on my slab 

shroud the swish of the knife 

in your secure secrecy

from the reluctant gurgles distil a symphony 

to drown the owls' protest.

O night

stay with me awhile

while I gather the shells of semi-selves 

discarded in the mist of your coming.

Don’t speak ill of the dead

 Don’t speak ill of the dead

Don’t speak ill of the dead they say

They are now spirit

Unbound by the rules of time or space

They will hear your speech before you say it

And clog the water in your pipes

Which any way is the ill you speak of

Or they may remove the bumps on your way

And lead the angels to hail you

As if the ill they wrought is now buried with the flesh

They didn’t crave their friends wife

Or collect the poor farmers seeds

That was their living actions

Now they are dead, they can do no evil

They can neither seize nor maul

Neither lie nor say the truth

So speak no ill of the dead

They are dead

The ills they wrought are now buried with the flesh

Nailed down shut in their coffins

Left alone with them in the stone vault

Arguing with the worms and the heat

The enzymes that disregard their robes

And return them and their ills to the earth

That speaks neither ill nor praise

Of the dead or of the living.

The earth just witnesses.

For the girl, the umbrella and the flood

For the girl, the umbrella and the flood

Spare a thought and a moment

Across the street 

Where the drain once was

Or may be is still is

No one can tell anymore

As the rains come steadily down

And the rivulets that

Start as steady drum beats

All march in numbing step

A billion army of blind drops

Gathering neighbours and comrades

From leaves to rooftops

Over umbrellas and soaked shoes

Turn into small trickles

And then bigger gurgles

And now raging floods

Spare a pain and a hail

At the little girl 

With matted hair 

Bravely standing in the path

Of the trickles that have become floods

With her tears joining

The army of drops and rivulets

She looks out through the torrent

Seeking out her mother

From the clump of heads

Bobbing above the floods

Some tossed by the floods

Some tossing the floods

In the battle between the armies

Of the drops and the wills

Now raging in the street

Spare a smile and a thanks

When the sun breaks the ranks

And separates the thunder from the cloud

So the drops lose their comrades

And the drumbeats slows down

And the watery bearers 

Can no longer hear the trumpets

Asking the march to stay on course

And the floods retreat to the gurgles

And the gurgles to the trickles

And all is quiet again

For the girl, the umbrella and the flood.

What do we tell the thief

 What do we tell the thief

If it wasn’t the chief

That is wearing the sandals

That was stolen on the market day

While the elders sat 

In conclave over the

Crops disappearing from the farm

If it wasn’t the chief

That came in the big car

Splashing water from the dry bed

Of long forgotten floods

Where the road used to be

And the shops have disappeared

If it wasn’t the chief

That wore a big gown

And a big smile in his smug face

Spreading fake cheer

Where there is only drought

And withering arms

If it wasn’t the chief

That sneaked between the sheets

And the covers hiding 

The secrets of our treasury

And raped her without mercy

Even while the sun bakes his bottom

If it wasn’t the chief

That we now know

Who leads the gang 

That we curse and beg

The brigands that we now bow to

And wonder what we will tell the thief.