Mr Preacher

Do not tell me– keep shut
when the cost of survival here
is  like 'haling helium in hell.
Don't tell me– close your trap–
heaven is a diaper, a thick towel
to wipe and dry sweaty frustrations...
Maybe you should retell me
you'll be like angels
with a new body whiter than snow
when you die. Don't!
Ask me if I believe your dogmas, oh preacher.
The road a front of the sanctuary
you call god's with a big G
is full and overflowing with
potholes, death traps, mosquito breeding centers and
beggars- god's children with empty pockets
who drop their last mites
with sorrow swollen faces
forced to smile against
your giant personal projects;
forced to smile by
the mirror message– god blesses
cheerful givers.
Why not say
the truth there is-
god is not man and needs no aid.
you tell us you are his oracle
and like god, his oracle must be rich
enough to fly jets nations
cannot afford in decades without huge debts
and live in gold coated mansions
on earth. But you forgot you said
earth too will pass away
with fire and brimstone.
Mr Preacher, I need a new sermon.

chidish thought

If monies were to be leaves of a special tree in
the forest– a tree having spikes on its barks–
stems and branches; a tree surrounded by
poisonous reptiles– snakes and their close allies;
a tree guarded by demons from above and
angels from below the earth's crust, life would
still continue, life will also have a termination
date. Humans will still survive anyhow.

All the way from Benin, a grasshopper stuck to
the wiper of a vehicle bound for Kano. I
wondered why it refused to stop at Kaduna– to
play in the fresh and green grasses near Zaria.
Why didn't it hop into the lush forests of Lokoja,
to sniff the sweet air surrounding the confluence
of river Niger and river Benue? I still don't know.
I am still wondering. On getting to Sabongari
park, Kano, the driver stopped finally– his final
stop. A redneck lizard climbed the car screen
and ate the grasshopper. I am wondering
why.

L.A.D

I dug my heart in sand
to find it is your artery
pumping life
and choking the mal-angel
strapping men
an uncomely cloak

imagine

plant a virile seed of thought
on a fertile mind
you need no rain
to grow it into a tree
with fruits edible for
this generation and the next

I shall write about this place

out of thick piles of rubbles

out of mountains of broken bricks

out of anonymous heaps of bones

out of red seas that flow

out of an explosion

a child struggles out

of the frozen back of a mother

once warm with life

but the rescuers say: a

mystic bird sketched maps

with droppings on his head

moments before the blast

so they pick sticks, and club

this handiwork of god, this miracle

till he joins his mother and the rest

who came haggling for cheap bread

to fill empty pouches beneath their breasts

not knowing the earth would do the eating

travel guide to a foreign friend

if you come to my african city
and the swollen streets swallow you
and the swollen stories in you,
will you be carefree like a northern bird
whose nest has been blown away
by careless northeastern trade wind?
will you in defiance perch
you and your starched grief on a branch
of that lowlife nest under high tension cables?
(your new home not home enough
to drown your metallic frustration)
will you remain still; ruffled yet resolved
with hope glistening on your beaks, your lips
like that homeless bird
at peace with the furious breeze?
if you come my african city
and steaming turbines of boozing business
evaporates the last pennies left
for your trip back home,
would you again say black skin
paints the red of a heart black
and that there's nothing pure in coal
even though it is kilned red
the colour of burnt bricks
a symbol of love like an enterprise?