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?