A Widow’s Cry
Tears of tomorrow's hope tear the heart of an African widow Her tears are like desert of abandoned water oasis No one hears her cry anymore, subjected to pain and penury. She cries for help. The African widow asked to marry her husband's brother, To keep the blood linage or bear a son for the dead. She becomes the brother's inheritance. Today I hear her cry, Her voice like cracked record, Old wrapper soaked with tears, Yet she wipes her tears with it and says: "Oh death, what cruelty! Must I agree? What is the hope of my children? Oh death where is my husband? Why allow ugly scavenger of a brother rip all possessions of our sweat Is it fair that the Kinsmen, the 'Umunna', Wants me - a piece of carcass - for a vulture What a culture, what a tradition, Who can hear my cry? Who can come to my aid?" Sobs away.
Every day I see Agbada on T.V Reverberating our ears, wobbling our sight About redemption from our ancestors, Interpreting incantations raising his calabash, Enchanting concocted words formed from fuming pot of flames. 'Words of our ancestors.' He says. Are our ancestors no longer mute faded ghosts? Do they have telephones in their tomb? I watched their tombs wear faces of cobwebs, No resurrection, Not like the Nazarene. While the Agbada message rings like bell on a hill every dawn morning, Thousands of sleepwalking masses cluster like zombies with unknown paths to choose, Like morning drunks, 'Imbecilic', Hearts thumping upon pots and calabashes While lips sing praises to the Nazarene. Like pendulum... Confusion! Confusion!
Hammer on Our Skin
Today, the face of our weather is with a wicked wrinkle, Blows breeze, raises dusty sands set by whirlwinds, Like hammer on our head, Harmattan strikes, Dries us white like ashes of roasted corn. It is not summer, It is not autumn, Something like a wicked winter without Snow or rain, just dryness. Dancing trees shed off dried leaves, Harmattan is a hammer on our skin, Yearly it comes, By it, we live and die, Such is the life in Nigeria.
I sit with raised neck and hang my breath, I see scattered stars staring at the earth. Above the sky, I see nakedness of moon clothed half with veil of blue, I see blur clouds move like dew, I hear mumbling echoes with waves of hue. Seated in outburst of thought, Seated on a seaside, Where Dragonflies flutter kisses on body of water, Where waves wobble water into fluctuations, dances from side to side, With melodious piece of Passenger's songs, I am lost in thought. Contemplating... Contemplating to oblivion.