2007
BEGINNING OF AN END…
days of dungeon of dreams have been opened
who has thought the child of yesterday will be the man today
in thorns and thistles of three decadal ages?
yesterday’s tiny-tot a similitude of a fleeting unnoticeable
shadow has now attained a look-and-turn-back metamorphosis
the new husband of mummy and the jewel of her neck
like they say this child nay man has arrived
in a volks or a mercedes?
ah-ah primitive mind
a man’s value is not judged by the automobile he arrives in
his infantile pupils have lost their rhythm
the rhythm of rebellion played under the noon sun
on the football pitch far away from home
the eyes have lost their mists of mischief
they have found direction and are glowing with meaning
mummy still deserves the biggest hug in this world
oh like mother like son and there are kisses and tears
from daddy a studied smile an understanding look and a pat on the back
a proud father of a humble son
this is the beginning of an end and the child has just become a real man…
1997
BOYS WILL BE BOYS
still waters run deep
especially when they flee underneath the bridge
you never can tell what a reticent twenty-year-old is up to?
a growing mind finding roots in every direction
fads friends sex knowledge and the thoughts of the unthinkable
they say boys will be boys even while growing older
the shadow of yesteryears are still clinging to a new flesh and blood
the baby is always the man and how can you be a man
when the baby in you is not killed or sold off?
that’s the irony of yesteryears that pass across the corridor of today
the zenith of rebellion has just begun
the lust for oceanic independence has developed depth
mummy please don’t tell me that
i’ve got my life to live and my own way i shall
have you forgotten daddy’s still the man and in charge?
do you think you might challenge him to a duel?
not now
but you won’t run away from him like a child
freaked out by flames of fiery flogging in the dead of night
in the stand-still silence daddy must see the man in this baby.
1987
HOPES AND REBELLIONS
high hopes and rebellion
a decadal age of mischief and mundane missions
muffled feelings and subdued angst and anger
the enormity of an overwhelming vacant fragile mind
questing to know all the unknown once at once
the pencil breaks many a time and the eraser is declared
stolen by friendly thieves and no arrest will be made
shame-faced admission of failure written in bold red
report cards are ominous handwriting on the wall
mother’s unconditional love always helps weather the storm
the rage of reasoning daddy is the beginning of wisdom
do you want to be mummy’s boy?
they say they never do well and you
what will you be when you still fart and pee like an untrained dog?
cold lessons will be served and hot desires will be drunk
what still happens to all the textbooks and the big notes?
now mummy must beat with the right hand and comfort
will still come from her left hand
how can you not love your mother?
are you not tempted to hate daddy in the stormy days of discipline?
1977
DUNGEON OF DREAMS…
ethereal thread of umbilical cord untied
from the august visitor
maternity agog and the wildfire of good news
spreads on to the plateau of Jos
happiness rends the air in kisses and tears
the cries of pain implode into infantile wail
oh like mother like son
the august sun stands still and shimmers on the
soft splattered smile of the face welcomed by every race
in this world there’s for everyone a place
where’s the father?
he hears the news and the happiness is bringing
him home from the Mambila
this is the birth of a new breath of life
come home quick and kiss the bundle of bliss
in suns and moons to come
what will the august son bring?
with dreamy brown eyes delicately buried in fragile sockets
he seems to be telling them
the days ahead are housed in dungeon of dreams.
SHADOWS OF A NIGHT VI
THE HUNTER AND THE HUNTED
On the street was a car parked opposite the building harbouring his prey; the man inside the car was an experienced, ruthless killer. He had an old newspaper in his hand. He was reading, with the aid of a pen-torch, an article with the title, Trigger and the Triumph. Deep furrows appeared on his brow as he read through the article. His lips began quivering violently as he read aloud the last two paragraphs of the article:
“Our society is nearing the brink of a precipice where each man and son, each mother and daughter will seek justice not at the law court; not from the legislative chamber nor through executive fiat, but we shall one and all seek justice through the pull of a trigger…draw the blood of atonement from the evil heads of corrupt cops guilty of wanton extrajudicial and careless killings.
No matter what appetizes their taste for madness and murders, these corrupt, murderous officers will meet their Waterloo one after the other. I am not a prophet. I do not own a crystal ball nor borrow one to gaze into. But the grass of the fallen innocent victims shall be watered with the blood of these trigger-happy policemen: the hunters and murderers. And after this long darkness, a new dawn; a new system of things; no trigger will be pulled. At that time it will be an honour to approach a cop – a dignified police officer; and not a hunter, a murderer. The conscience and the pen are much more lethal than the gun!”
The pen much lethal than the gun. The man thought. He brought out a gun from the pigeon hole and took out a pen from inside his jacket. He placed the two objects on the seat beside the driver’s. He studied those objects with keen interest. A pen? A gun? Which is more lethal? He pondered. He chose the locally made pistol and kissed it tenderly like a sorely missed lover.
“Hush baby, you’re not going to shriek so much tonight. Okay?” he told the gun. The potent but lifeless gun said nothing in the vice-grip of his lover and master. He wished he had a better gun, like a Beretta pistol. But the Chief had told him no mistake and no living of any trace. A locally made pistol would do. So this burly man had to improvise with the locally made pistol. He did not really care. To him murder was murder. He could even do it with bare hands. That was why they named him Handy. And with this man violent death always came in handy.
He let out a victorious whimper.
beibee
