The Poetry Marathon

There is that which the mind can comprehend

and that which may turn it mad

Things are not always what they seem

Grandpa said that in his day

when men were real men who wielded swords

and did not flinch at the sight of blood,

there were men among men

It was a time when strange things confounded logic

Pray, how can a anyone fetch water with a basket

and not a drop is lost to the ground?

How can a goat crow like a cock standing on his perch?

How does a man balance his weight

on the tip of a twig and confound gravity?

Grandpa told of men who turned to animals, yea-

a hunter may shoot at a chimp in the forest

only to be handed the bullets upon his return,

and warned never to shoot at every animal he sees..

In the heat of battle, men turned to ferocious beasts

and tore their enemies to bits

Then when the moon has departed and all is silent

the body emerges from the mask and walk

the grounds we walk.

We smoked better than chimneys- cheeky urban teenagers

roller-coasting our way through life, cussing at life itself

Like we had a spare in our dirty closets.

This night will not be the death of me

Smoking guns reaping death’s harvest for our father the devil

smiling and cheering and waiting for us at hell’s gate

as we gang-warred on bloody pavements.

This night will not be the death of me

Sirens screaming blue murder as sewer rats scrambled for cover

running, ducking, upsetting waste bins as we looked for an exit

in the smoke-filled streets, groping in tear-gassed frenzy.

This night will not be the death of me

Yet a bullet found me with my name on it,  and dazed, eyes turning pale,

hands dragging me as I smelled the antiseptic interior of an ambulance,

doctors reeling out orders, mom crying, and I soaring towards a Man above in white saying

This night will not be the death of you.

I awake with head pounding.

there’s a place where kindred spirits gather-

where the souls of men are made stronger

and no barrier can stand the deep hunger,

the deep resolve to move farther, together

where each draws from within and without

contending with the demons of his fears

breaking barriers with visage so fierce

to bring forth a gem from the ashes of doubt

Mother Muse watches and lends a hand

as the souls of men swirl  and soar

and with a victory chant, roar:

“We’re unconquerable as a band!”

your jokes

and the way you tell them

have me in stitches

in no time

I am helpless

like one laid spread-eagled

titters, tickled with the tip

of a feather.

then I howl

like a lunatic gone berserk

my ribs hurt

not from being kicked in

but from a kind of pain

that has pleasure as its name.

Tell, how high can you soar standing so lofty and haughty

above the mulberries and dwarf plants?

Though your leaves strain against the skies,

And receive the first showers of rain,

Yet they bow before my ever-searching lips.

Tempestuous flies test my temper even as my tail eagerly chastises them

My strong hind legs dare hungry cats, stomp the earth-. a warning to the wise

before bones break and warriors weary from battle

limp away in shame.

I rise above all,  ruminate over the fresh, fleshy leaves of the wild.

Home from school and the sweltering heat of day

Greeted mom and she parroted, ‘Good afternoon, darling’

The last word slapped my face

Mom was no romantic

And a few steps into the house,

dad sat stolid, and stolidly greeted me.

An afternoon to remember

A bitterleaf soup with semovita, and Nico Mbarga belting Sweet Mother from ancient speakers

Something was amiss. Darling? And mom was no romantic.

Straight-laced Anglican woman with no frills about knocking a child back into shape.

Darling?

Siesta done, father called me by that name which portended danger.

Name in full, meaning, your cup is full.

The drawer opened and my sin (more…)

Under the great baobab tree, we gather for a feast, great and small
Forsaking any chores that may hold us down.

We watch the battles that are fought on a bench, won by words and mind
Dexterous fingers hovering over the beloved ayo game, hovering, pondering before they swoop down-
Hungry hawks homing in for a kill

The battle is on- fought with words and mind.
No place for the faint hearted to stand.
The brave may well boast of his exploits
Scooping the balls of victory from one kingdom to the other
Dropping his marks like a lion wets a tree to mark his presence.
Oh, ayo, the game that you give!

We stand in awe as we watch
Eyes pondering like the players’
Expecting a winner and hoping
until one shows forth
The one who understands this game of the ancients

Ayo is for the player
Ayo plays the player who knows no patience.

The finger asked me:

‘Of all the fingers you own,

why did you choose me to hurt?’

I avoided an answer

Because I was void of one

Head bent in guilt, I pleaded,

It was an accident, no,

not my carelessness

for I saw the machete swing,

like it had swung at other times

as I broke the husk of a coconut.

But how could I tell,

yes, how could I tell

that the machete would miss the coconut

choose the finger that held it?

Now, athrob with pain and dripping blood

my thumb does not feel like my own.

Dear Chidi

This is as good a time as any to say these words.

To tell you of words that you nurtured all these years for me,

that never found utterance.

Words that lived in your heart for me, like a hermit,

secluded from the rest of humanity.

You had these words in your eyes in the way you looked at me.

I could discern your yearning for me.

And I longed to hear those words spoken into my ears.

But they never came.

Dear Chidi, what held you back?

You’d often told your friends how crazy about me you were.

Yet, when you saw me, you became tongue-tied.

How I longed to hear you say, ‘Oby, I love you.’

Oh, the many nights I waited, hoping to hear

a soft knock on my window, and see

my Romeo come to take me away.

What happened to those words you held on to?

Were they strangled by fear or shyness?

And if you could take back the hands of time,

would you speak those words to me?

Now the years have separated us, and each has found

another path to walk.

Yet, thoughts of what we could have being together

come and go.

And those words though unspoken,

ring out loud in my imagination.

Oby.

Sitting on an easy chair

in the space between boredom

and sleepiness, I watch,

wineglass in hand, as passersby hurry

along the pavement.

They walk, past the oak

which sits by the roadside

where a nail juts out, imperceptible,

hungry for a cloth or a skin,

hungry as I am thirsty

for another drink.

They walk.

I watch.

the nail waits.