This Poem

I'm locked up in my favourite nook -

The room behind my mental hideout...

Writing a poem titled truth

as I pass past my past...

Pen in climax

Poem in climax...

This poem,

it speaks of frozen seas

where ships are trapped like a sheep

in the gallows of hate.

It speaks of barren mothers 

giving birth to still adults 

who are taken by the storm

of hate.

This poem,

it speaks of no new thing

but the ugly sting

of racial discrimination.

It sings like a little kid boy,

the innocent love of lust,

to the little kid girl

whose hair stand erect - tall - 

aroused like the flicker 

of golden butterflies in her baby heart.

But his guitar

as old my grandpa

issues throaty tunes

of ruins, ruins and more ruins.

Yet I wonder

why will one whisper laughter

in such moody mood?

Even the sands

are whiter than baby tooth.

This poem,

it speaks of endless hope

it speaks of hopeless end,

of time,

sluggish time 

Time undefined

neither by seasons swift

nor seasonings sweet.

This poem,

it speaks of heroes gone

whose names are stuck

on in the vagina of time

giving birth to dreams - 

yours and mine.

Giving life to wishes - 

yours and mine.

Firing up our dead deeds

to live again and again.

This poem,

it sings of the fame

of no mean men

with skins as dark as black,

of Madiba,

God bless Mandela.

Of Chukwuemeka Ojukwu,

of Martin Luther and Rosa too.

Of Malcolm and Michael Jackson,

of Kenyatta and Of Selassie.

Of Osadebe and Bob Marley,

of Christie and Maria Makaeba...

Of my Grandfather

of Ghadafi and Okocha and Kenyatta - 

Men and women of note.

Changers.

Shakers.

Movers

Africans.

This poem,

it is in its spirit vexed.

Vexed about African disunity.

Vexed about African terrorism.

Vexed about xenophobia.

Vexed about the tag

the rest of the crew of spaceship earth

stamp on our sun-burnt faces -

Third world?

Who is the first?

Are we really the third?

This poem,

it speaks for South Sudan.

It speaks for Biafra.

It weeps for Somalia.

It screams for the Gambia.

It speaks for the downtrodden

by once beloved brethren.

This poem,

it is like the one you inked;

the poem they never will read.

The poem that'll never receive

the acclamation of awkward applause

of the rest of the world.

The poem that'll stay stacked

on the dusty racks

of juvenile works

like silly lines of colours

splashed on broken walls.

This poem,

will not be spoken nor sung.

Will not be strapped to religion

Will not be stolen because of its value

but for mockery, mockery and mockery.

- black Monkey.

This poem,

this poem of mine

shall run even like odd numbers

and stay buoyant 

on the sea of time

until bombs and guns 

and fire and blood

replace the sweet lyrics of dear mama's songs.

This poem

will speak in tongues

like the Yoruba talking drums

of how Sango the warrior

stumbled over the mallet of Thur.

It shall hoot

like Odenigbo's flute

of how Amadioha traded oil palms

for minted paper-greased palms.

This poem,

long like the river Nile,

boring like the Kenyan rhymes

It might not change a thing.

But its meaning shall be changed.

I shall by this poem of mine

become the reincarnate of us.

Our pride

Our stand

Our time.

For I choose to speak the unspoken

For I choose to write the unwritten

For I choose to let it linger longer than eternity

until time shall time out

and your weak minds shall remember

now and forever

that this poem never was written

nor shall ever be written.

That this poet never was born

nor ever in hell burn

for telling a lie that is more truer

than the birth of the Messiah.

That this is a secret.

That this is no secret.

That I am as confused

as the stuffy air in this room.

That I shall take the blame

for wasting your time reading the insane

lines of my muse's inking.

This poem,

it is the fragment of your thoughts

the ingredients of your thoughts

the very hinges on which the door

that opens up...

I do not even know...

I cannot even recall...

What is it I want to write.

But this poem, 

it shall speak silently still

in your mind

until black is rated mankind.

This poem...

This poem...

I wrote it with closed eyes

and bleeding fingers...

locked up in my favourite nook -

The room behind my mental hideout...

Writing a poem titled truth

as I pass past my past...

Pen in climax

Poem in climax...

This poem...

Ah!

#Pengician