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<h2 class="wp-block-heading">Refine Brain Drain</h2>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">On the edge of a day 
when the sun was retreating 
 
 from the advancing army of darkness, 
 a boy and a woman 
 
mounted the shore keeping vigil for the ship. 
The lips of the mother were vibrating in strength. 
 
 The prayers gushing out of her mouth 
 were flooding the sea more and more. As if to say 
 
the water needs no debris 
of the blessings poured on the son, 
 
 it was growing steadily. 
 In a swift my mind went back to the faded years 
 
when a man leaves the world of living 
and cycles to the other end. The weeping lovers 
 
 will be doing the work to evoke him back. Assuming 
 he makes a U-turn, all tears dry up, 
 
you will be entertained with a marathon 
of heels burning with fear. 
 
 That was a chink of the condition on the shore. 
 A mother’s wish: her children to pierce 
 
through the rafters of a hard world 
and brace the journey to a more fertile page 
 
 where their golden pencil 
 will create a world of their own. 
 
But when the legs step out 
the sad heart that will miss the son would like to cage him in the ribs. 
 
 Had it not been for chaos 
 looming in politics, 
 
why will a boy call home 
the mouth of a snake 
 
 and tilt to a direction 
 that water leads to? </pre>



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<h2 class="wp-block-heading">Chronicle of Forced Steps</h2>



<pre class="wp-block-verse">The last time I glided
through the pages of history,

I saw figures of screams bellowing.
Mixed feelings clutched me in a tight corner.

In the middle of the red chapters, 
women heavy with sorrows were polishing

the soils of their fatherland
with the soles of their fidgeting feet. Their mind 

carted away into the endless sea 
of hopelessness. Faces were bereft of smiles. 

If there was a cause for joy 
they would have danced – shake their waist better

than the women of Zulu. But there's none. 
The joy was squeezed. Maimed. Cremated in the land 

that their eyes may never behold. At a corner of the night colored past, 
a man tattooed with scars of fear was rusting with the chains on his hands. 

He was fading away. Little by little. 
His wide eyes were blazing with flames – 

not the one that shocks the tender hands of toddlers from a lamp 
nor the one that prepares bitter-leaf soup in the old kitchen of Granny.

They were furious flames – shooting out bullets 
that wailed a thousand meanings: get out of here! I’m not going anywhere! Leave me!

How this heart decapitated of freedom still stood at the edge of life?
Counting the number of suns that will shimmer his dark dry skin 


with the tip of his dead tongue. He must 
have looked into the gloomy sky 

to see the flocking feathers of vultures 
painting the sky in a spiral movement. 

Waiting for their game to be ripe 
for devouring. Gentle prayers must have hooked 

his lips– that white coven for forced journey does not touch his children.
Even at these, he still staggered 

with his fellows. Swaying like a hungry orange tree 
in the sea of rushing winds. His crops 

lying buried in his farms must be shouting his name. 
Wet cheeks from lovers at home must keep hitting his mind. But the 

strength to follow the mind’s will is dead. The trail on the fertile land 
through which they trespassed will not come again.</pre>



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<p class="has-text-align-right has-black-color has-text-color has-background has-link-color wp-elements-96e0ec8dbcc49f7fadcd326344c4b9f5" style="background-color:#f1f1f8">Paschal Ezeokafor, born in Ekwulobia, Anambra State, Nigeria, is a pharmacy student at Nnamdi Azikiwe University. He is a winner of the African Giants Award in poetry. Connect with him on Facebook via Ezeokafor Paschal, on Instagram and Twitter (X) via @pc_ezeokafor, or WhatsApp on +234 816 089 0516.</p>
 
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‘CHRONICLE OF FORCED STEPS’ & ‘REFINED BRAIN DRAIN’ | two poems by Paschal Ezeokafor
