I kept
the mandate of my people
I died
the death of self
I kept
the mandate of my people
I died
the death of self
Imomotimi, sail on to the other side
As we paddle words to hurry waves for you
While counting time on our prayer beads
The most valuable Nigerian export is neither gold nor oil,
It is Chinua Achebe, the true son of the soil,
This is the poem to celebrate black excellence
Does God allow gods
To preach love & show hate
In the name Of holy communion?
the eyes of the rocks shine at your voice.
the legs of the hills dance dexterously,
at the rhythmicity of your verses
Say, silence bears seeds & disperses them through the garden of this body.
Say, her flowers have thorns.
Say, this body is bleeding. Say, this body’s throat is slit & parched.
Another child renders grandmas’ poem
An imagination, whose stanzas are dyke of tales,
Now it has swallowed him a line.
I wear a mask with dimples that twinkle
and remain, as they say, an optimistic human
and the remnants
of the orphaned rain is lying here
between our ribs, sieving the dust
trying to blur the eye’s of this
night would born.
Fowls have become dumb
Dogs are now bony
Dust is tick and fleshy