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.