Egg of Fortune

One two three and before
You know it’s ten female children
Begot of her in pursuit of a male child and
Instead of glory her’s is gory.

Rebecca has gone this far
To appease the gung farts;
She could lose her husband
Should another beget him a male.
They say it’s tradition and
I say it’s attrition.

Her eggs are fertile
But her labour is futile. They say
Females don’t matter but the
Matter is females are the world’s fortune.

They swear their tradition to be sacrosanct
But forget that Nneka (mother is supreme).
Their lips are as loose as a goose
But believe they’re as smooth as a snooze.

Zero don’t play the hero and
Abel won’t be able
To be a judge over us.
Forward ever backward never!

The Narrow Road

Fetching firewood in the bush faraway from home late afternoon,
Suddenly, the scorching heat turns the chilling wind,
The sunny skies turn red, then gloomy cloud, the darkness.
It’s the sign of a heavy rain, a downpour, flood inevitable.
Chidi knows it as teardrops fall freely, heavily from his eyes, his crimson face
And haste  we make the narrow road home.

Dear Lord, murmurs Chidi, mom’s home alone
Though rain flood our floor tonight this May
Thy mercy show I implore and spare a room
Our head may rest.

Chidi, only child to only daughter
Only but no father
Leaves in a hut with mother happily and
To many a chagrin.
Rain is dread for mother and child.

Midway home caught and drenched, no shelter no shade no stopping
This narrow road
Homeward strut and legs-paddled we did tirelessly and
Over our heads sat firewood bundles
Both hands clutched to the bundles as
The ferocious wind and downpour fight to steal our labour.
Branches break trees fall, all around us blocking
This narrow road.

Closer to home the flood level drops and
Minutes away the dry land we see no plops.
Praising the Lord, Chidi murmurs and tears-up again as
The rain never came home. It’s all about
That narrow road.

Papa’s Goatskin Bag

One tap two taps my young shoulders felt
” Get up, get up,” papa’s hoarse voice whispers.
Half awaken half adreaming and faintly my name I hear.
I was eight and it was 3:00AM.
“Get my bag, we must go now;” papa commanded!

Walking the darkness of the night through the haunted narrow winding road
Misty leaves of roadside bushes slap left to right rendering us damp.
Passing the village public latrine and graveyard terrain,
Across my left shoulder to my waist hung the bag, and beside him,
Papa expounded stories of a beautiful bride named “wisdom!”
The bag is custodian of life-essentials: herbs, roots, barks, blades, concoctions,
Wine gourd-cups, oil, snuff, kola nuts, bitter kola, alligator pepper, handkerchief.
Tough, impenetrable and odourless goatskin this bag be,
Perfectly twined goat-hides its strap be,
Oversized rusty buckle its lock be,
Papa’s goatskin bag.

Unknown then was electricity, kerosene-lamps lit us, firewood our meals cooked.
Barefeet we trod, scooping along dusty sands and risking all.
Deadly hissing snakes and chirping crickets silence as we
Approach to reproach. The quietness more frightening and bone-chilling than the night.
It’s odd time for human perambulation.
Louder got the chirping and more vicious the hissing, clearly protesting:
‘Tis our time, humans!

‘Twas elders emergency meeting, summoned by the town crier.
Discussion is held hundred percent in proverbs and idioms
Otherwise taboo be it.
No business has a simply-minded in this gathering
Eternal frustration and shame to the elders unversed
To proverbs and idioms.
One third of the men, their kids they bring
To groom and to bequeath the
Secret of the goatskin bag.

Forty-four men in perfect circle on their individual 1ft. wooden stool sat,
Welcomed by ten clay jars of soured palm-wine and bowls of kola placed in their centre.
Mazi  Efulefu, archer and porter, stone-faced and looking blankly inscrutable,
Clearing his throat, addressed the kindred:
“He who brings kola brings life; what the elder sees while seating on the ground,
A child cannot see even when standing on top of a mountain.”
Intent listening, easily bemused, hard understanding and forever I retain
Their rambled discussions that lasted but half hour, and
In reckless abandon did all speeches idiomatically centre on
Subjection, supposition and subjugation, born out of
Oppression, depression and suppression.
But why? the kids must evolve into
Papa’s goatskin bag!

 

Ant

Oh rapid ant,
You are as
Calm and placid
As you are full
Of formic acid.

Why have you
No limit to the latitude
Where you can exist
With attitude?
Though vibrant and industrious,
Thou art an irritant.

-written July 2014