Skip to main content

What Of The Boy Child? - Uchendu K Njionye


WHAT OF THE BOY CHILD?

'One day you will head a home';
With this he is expected to be mind-tly gigantic from the womb.
But tell me of a farm not weeded yet gives bountiful yield?

Much attention to the female folk
but non to the Boy Child.

The BOY CHILD -
that cloud that died trying to be rain so as to reach earth.
they say the tortise is slow
but they forgot his shell
which is his body in ten.

That boy child laden with words only the wind can comprehend.
Stone heart
forged from lifeless words behind his lips,
shackled with visions visible to dark minds. 

The boy child
who must wear a shoe 
fitting or not
adapter he is.

That boy child
serving somewhere in Nnewi for years
thrown home in deodorant of shame
for miss madam couldn't have her way in him

that bud ripe of innocence at eight by A..u..n..t..y

those boys who followed ODUMEGWU
just to secure a better morrow for their mothers, their sisters.

The boy child
bodies under bridges
finding their path
wolfing from same calabash of faith
finding sleep amidst owls
cobwebs as bed sheet
stones as pillows
holding on hope
waiting on fate.

The boy child
the barrow pusher
that boy in prison for daring to be a Joseph in our age.

That one with hunchback
he fell from a slippery tree 
on a rainy day
for mother was hospitalized
and sisters were hungry.

Boy child
harboring pains in places the body can't feel
he cries, he's human.
He has fears
for even demons dread light.  

- Uchendu K Njionye

Photo Credit: Pencraft

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....