Tufia !!

 Tufia !!

What will the diviner  say

As the beads he flung on the mat

Slowly climbed over each other

Settling in pattern of foreboding

The black arrayed against the white

The trained eye seeing the evil

Coiled and waiting to spring

What would the elders scream

When the diviner relays his divination

Of the pattern on his mat

And the portents from the gods

The propitiation that has been asked

A head for a head, a soul for a soul?

What would the young shout

When asked for their portion of the sacrifice

A head for a head, a soul for a soul

A sacrifice to propitiate the gods

For the sins of the elders

Who have invited the diviner 

Who cast the divination beans?

What would the earth say  

When told of the sacrifice

To come from generation to generation

A head for a head, blood left on the tarmac

A soul for a soul, conscience left in the vaults 

The diviner afraid of the truth

Elders afraid of their sins?

Tufia !!

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.)