Once Upon a Time by Gabriel Okara

Once Upon a Time

Once upon a time, son,

they used to laugh with their hearts

and laugh with their eyes:

but now they only laugh with their teeth,

while their ice-block-cold eyes

search behind my shadow.

There was a time indeed

they used to shake hands with their hearts:

but that’s gone, son.

Now they shake hands without hearts:

while their left hands search

my empty pockets.

‘Feel at home’! ‘Come again’:

they say, and when I come

again and feel

at home, once, twice,

there will be no thrice –

for then I find doors shut on me.

So I have learned many things, son.

I have learned to wear many faces

like dresses - homeface,

officeface, streetface, hostface,

cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles

like a fixed portrait smile.

And I have learned too

to laugh with only my teeth

and shake hands without my heart.

I have also learned to say, ‘Goodbye’,

when I mean ‘Good-riddance’;

to say ‘ Glad to meet you’,

without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been

nice talking to you’, after being bored.

But believe me, son.

I want to be what I used to be

when I was like you. I want

to unlearn all these muting things.

Most of all, I want to relearn

how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror

shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs !

So show me, son,

how to laugh; show me how

I used to laugh and smile

once upon a time when I was like you.

Gabriel Okara

Gabriel Imomotimi Okara was born on 25th April, 1921 in Bomoundi in Bayelsa State, Nigeria . In 1979, he was awarded the Commonwealth Poetry.

The Moon and Me by Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

By the women knitting slow songs

into their washing

by the lovers spraying the water

with whispered words

by the shy birds lending their voices

from the purdah of sleepy branches

by the hoes hiding from the weariness

of men returned from the farm

softly

on the sand

the moon

spreads his mat for the children to sit on.

Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

Babafemi Adeyemi Osofisan is a Nigerian professor and writer born on June 16, 1946 in Ogun State, Nigeria, who is well-known for his literary works that criticize societal issues and incorporate African traditional performances and surrealism in some of his plays. His plays often revolve around the struggle between good and evil. He is a didactic writer who aims to rectify the decaying state of society through his works. Additionally, he has written poetry under the pen name Okinba Launko.

End of the War by Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

They say,

a war only ends,

when another war begins:

the silence of the battlefield

heralds the widow’s anguish

For, to set questions

is not as hard as finding answers….

Our war has ended

because war is now with us

The deserted houses, the fallen rafters

breed the city’s slums

and the praise singers are not dead

they have only gone to the barracks ….

the butchers fill the parliaments ….

and the victims no longer die by bullets

but survive to pay the levies

Listen ___ they will tell you ___

to beat drums is mere children’s play

the adult’s is to start echoes ….

Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

Babafemi Adeyemi Osofisan is a Nigerian professor and writer born on June 16, 1946 in Ogun State, Nigeria, who is well-known for his literary works that criticize societal issues and incorporate African traditional performances and surrealism in some of his plays. His plays often revolve around the struggle between good and evil. He is a didactic writer who aims to rectify the decaying state of society through his works. Additionally, he has written poetry under the pen name Okinba Launko.

Dedication from Moremi, a poem by Wole Soyinka

Dedication from Moremi

Earth will not share the rafter's envy; dung floors
Break, not the gecko's slight skin, but its fall
Taste this soil for death and plumb her deep for life

As this yam, wholly earthed, yet a living tuber
To the warmth of waters, earthed as springs
As roots of baobab, as the hearth.

The air will not deny you. Like a top
Spin you on the navel of the storm, for the hoe
That roots the forests plows a path for squirrels.

Be ageless as dark peat, but only that rain's
Fingers, not the feet of men, may wash you over.
Long wear the sun's shadow; run naked to the night.

Peppers green and red—child—your tongue arch
To scorpion tail, spit straight return to danger's threats
Yet coo with the brown pigeon, tendril dew between your lips.

Shield you like the flesh of palms, skyward held
Cuspids in thorn nesting, in sealed as the heart of kernel—
A woman's flesh is oil—child, palm oil on your tongue

Is suppleness to life, and wine of this gourd
From self-same timeless run of runnels as refill
Your pod lings, child, weaned from yours we embrace

Earth's honeyed milk, wine of the only rib.
Now roll your tongue in honey till your cheeks are
Swarming honeycombs—your world needs sweetening, child.

  Cam woodround the heart, chalk for flight
Of blemish—see? it dawns!—antimony beneath
Armpits like a goddess, and leave this taste

Long on your lips, of salt, that you may seek
None from tears. This, rain-water, is the gift
Of gods—drink of its purity, bear fruits in season.

Fruits then to your lips: haste to repay
The debt of birth. Yield man-tides like the sea
And ebbing, leave a meaning of the fossil led sands.

Wole Soyinka 

Wole Soyinka is one the most honoured African poets. He is a playwright, poet, lecturer and an activist. He was awarded the Nobel prize in Literature in 1986 being the African to be so honoured. Wole Soyinka was born on 13 July, 1934.

Procession I - Hanging Day, a poem by Wole Soyinka

Procession I - Hanging Day

Hanging day.

A hollow earth

Echoes footsteps of the grave procession.

Walls in sunspots

Lean to shadow of the shortening morn.

Behind an eyepatch lushly blue.

The wall of prayer has taken refuge

In a piece of blindness, closed.

Its grey recessive deeps.

Fretful limbs.

And glances that would sometimes

Conjure up a drawbridge

Raised but never lowered between

Their gathering and my sway.

Withdraw, as all the living world

Belie their absence in a feel of eyes

Barred and secret in the empty home.

Of shuttered windows, I know the heart.

Has journeyed far from present.

Tread. Drop. Dread Drop. Dead.

What may I tell you? What reveal?

I who before them peered unseen

Who stood one-legged on the untrodden

Verge- lest I should not return.

That I received them? That I wheeled above and flew beneath them.

And brought him on his way.

And came to mine, even to the edge

Of the unspeakable encirclement?

What may I tell you of the five

Bell-ringers on the ropes to chimes.

Of silence?

What tell you of rigors of the law?

From watchtowers on stunned walls.

Raised to stay a siege of darkness

What whisper to their football thunders.

Vanishing to shrouds of sunlight?

Let not man speak of justice, guilt

Far away, blood-stained in their

Tens of thousands, hands that damned.

These wretches to the pit triumph

But here, alone the solitary deed.

Wole Soyinka 

Wole Soyinka is one the most honoured African poets. He is a playwright, poet, lecturer and an activist. He was awarded the Nobel prize in Literature in 1986 being the African to be so honoured. Wole Soyinka was born on 13 July, 1934.

Telephone Conversation, a poem by Wole Soyinka

Telephone Conversation

The price seemed reasonable, location

Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived

Off premises. Nothing remained

But self-confession. ‘Madam,’ I warned,

‘I hate a wasted journey—I am African.’

Silence. Silenced transmission of

Pressurised good-breeding. Voice, when it came,

Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled

Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.

‘HOW DARK ?’... I had not misheard... ‘ARE YOU LIGHT

OR VERY DARK ?’ Button B. Button A. Stench

Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.

Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered

Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed

By ill-mannered silence, surrender

Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.

Considerate she was, varying the emphasis—

‘ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?’ Revelation came.

‘You mean—like plain or milk chocolate?’

Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light

Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,

I chose. ‘West African sepia’—and as afterthought,

“down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic

Flight of fancy, till truthfulness changed her accent

Hard on the mouthpiece. ‘WHAT’S THAT?’ conceding

‘DON’T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.’ ‘Like brunette.’

‘THAT’S DARK, ISN’T IT?’ ‘Not altogether.

Facially, I am brunette, but madam, you should see

The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet

Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused—

Foolishly madam—by sitting down, has turned

My bottom raven black—One moment madam!’—sensing

Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap

About my ears—‘Madam,’ I pleaded, ‘wouldn’t you rather

See for yourself?’

Wole Soyinka 

Wole Soyinka is one the most honoured African poets. He is a playwright, poet, lecturer and an activist. He was awarded the Nobel prize in Literature in 1986 being the African to be so honoured. Wole Soyinka was born on 13 July, 1934.

Asewo, a poem by Mamman Vatsa

Asewo

Butu, butu, Cameroon insect.

Man wey no wan scratch him body

make e no look you for face

Like Cameroon man dey say,

butu, butu na our country ting

Mamman Vatsa

Mamman Jiya Vatsa (OFR) was born on December 3rd, 1940. He was a General in Nigerian Army and a poet. He was a member of the Supreme Military Council. Mamman Vasta was a lover of literature; he assisted the Children's Literature Association of Nigeria with funds and built a Writer's Village for the Association of Nigerian Authors. It is also noted that he hosed their annual conferences. The Writer's Village was named in his honour in January, 2013. He was executed by the military regime of General Ibrahim Babangida (his childhood friend) on 5th of March 1986 after he was convicted for treason in connection with an unsuccessful coup.

Longing by Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

Life roars on, of course

elsewhere, as I rise and open the door.

And there is a moon, outside,

shining gently, as if afraid to be heard

It will not tell me of your whereabouts,

the moon does not believe that I miss you

and so, in the florescence of my office,

sitting alone with my poem,

I am alone and do not hear you pass

I miss your steps in the corridor of

the century, and the friends are fewer daily

to confide in, except this poem

Except this song that will not be sung.

Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

Babafemi Adeyemi Osofisan is a Nigerian professor and writer born on June 16, 1946 in Ogun State, Nigeria, who is well-known for his literary works that criticize societal issues and incorporate African traditional performances and surrealism in some of his plays. His plays often revolve around the struggle between good and evil. He is a didactic writer who aims to rectify the decaying state of society through his works. Additionally, he has written poetry under the pen name Okinba Launko.

Wild Things by Femi Osofisan

(for Baroness Blixen)

ONE

Beautiful

& very touching

a lady fell in love with Africa

& made it a porcelain of her youth

scripting her adventurous life

into the yielding loom of the forests

lavish, breath-taking landscape

& always, in the background—

huge shadows—

walk the owners of the land

tamed

unlike the royal elephants

unlike the buffaloes

the numerous birds—

tamed

to serve the white lady

with their ever grinning teeth

TWO

The beautiful film is a hymn to wild things

to the white lady, refusing to bend to the male

commandments of colonial rule

or to the diktat of husband

in the conscripting laws of English marriage

or the shame of venereal disease

near fatal

always holding her head high

holding firm

even after the capricious betrayal of a safari lover

(who has to die later in a plane crash

so as to further test her dignity)

apt too, that in the end, the film tells us

that lions camp over the lover’s grave

(in tribute)

he who had always hunted them

paying homage to the kindred spirit

of this wild stranger in a wild land

even if he hunted and killed them

THREE

Oh all the beautiful things are wild

The lions as well as the unending plains

The water that will not be damned

But must return to Mombassa

The woman that will defy her womanhood

To pursue her husband into the very face of war

(& bring death back with her, in her vagina)

who would raise coffee beans

on highland, against the tested

(but obviously foolish) wisdom

of the native Kikuyus—

FOUR

Yes, Kikuyus, my Africans

not even a note for you in the lady’s last lament—

her poem is for the land forsaken

her two closest Africans being the boy

she healed of sores and taught to cook

(and then left behind)

and the faithful houseboy

so obviously lost

in a love that if spoken

would have begotten a scandal

FIVE

She left—and never came back, we’re told—

(what’s left to return to?)

This beautiful lady

who caught so much of the poetry

of Africa

and schooled the natives so well

in the art of bending

that many decades afterwards

after she and her countrymen have departed

black colonials now rule in Kikuyuland

served by bending servants,

black men armed with the same whips

well cut for black flesh

with the same half-literate cooks

decorating their kitchens, and

with the same mute lips, taught that

to speak of the love of freedom

is to be chased into the wilderness

or to shallow graves unknown to loving lions

unknown to the songs of today’s other

Blixens…

SIX

Yes, all the beautiful things are untamed

The beautiful life of a woman is

a paean, untamed,

to the goddess of wildness

& abandon in a wild colonial land

Some lives are as free and fierce as the lore of lions

(some lives, armed with guns…)

so fierce the film

so fierce and shattering

surging in ancient truths on the love of a woman

like the resurgence of ancient myth

the vast landscape

reminding us of Africa’s beauty

(especially where the natives have not been

trespassing)

& of Africa’s loss…

SEVEN

But why despair?

we’ve always been in the background

in the wild adventures of their books

Films such as this prolong the pain:

but do not despair—

We haven’t the means ourselves to show our lives

at their stark & grandiose moments:

but the day will come—

Moments when we are alone by ourselves

& are just being beautiful, by ourselves…

but the day will come—

No weapons of our own to show our pure sufferings

those moments when our faces are not just masks

but sensitive skins & tender voices:

Moments when our wounds bleed blood, red like

others, red like all blood…

but the day will come—

Ase, Edumare…

EIGHT

Here in Limoges

I mourn Africa

I mourn myself

in the mirror of strangers

I feel pain on behalf of all of us

who have remained nameless across the ages

like a vague and formless ghost

in the mirror of our guests

the shadow

against which the white man defines himself

NINE

Yes—our land is beautiful

even if, as they say,

we are mere receptacles of history

onlookers, who carry the bags

while the white men tame our lions

& our land…

That is the story they tell us

& our children:

but the day will come—

when Okinba will no longer

be mourning,

& history will be awake in our hands,

oh the day will come—

when Okinba will be singing

in his own voice

oh the day will come—

telling our own stories

singing our own songs.

Femi Osofisan 

Babafemi Adeyemi Osofisan is a Nigerian professor and writer born on June 16, 1946 in Ogun State, Nigeria, who is well-known for his literary works that criticize societal issues and incorporate African traditional performances and surrealism in some of his plays. His plays often revolve around the struggle between good and evil. He is a didactic writer who aims to rectify the decaying state of society through his works. Additionally, he has written poetry under the pen name Okinba Launko.

Yamankoro, a poem by Mamman Vatsa

Yamankoro

Big like Cameroon coco yam.

If you wan dry am,

Make you buy alum

Look man wey dey hungry Dey throw way better meal.

*Yamankoro – Snail

Mamman Vatsa 

Mamman Jiya Vatsa (OFR) was born on December 3rd, 1940. He was a General in Nigerian Army and a poet. He was a member of the Supreme Military Council. Mamman Vasta was a lover of literature; he assisted the Children's Literature Association of Nigeria with funds and built a Writer's Village for the Association of Nigerian Authors. It is also noted that he hosed their annual conferences. The Writer's Village was named in his honour in January, 2013. He was executed by the military regime of General Ibrahim Babangida (his childhood friend) on 5th of March 1986 after he was convicted for treason in connection with an unsuccessful coup.

Paris Latin Quarter by Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

Sweet Marie-Anne, she thought

Being French, intellectual and brunette

Entitled her, in any Parisian cafe

To prompt service—and she was

Probably right, (as the Policeman

Later confirmed)—always provided

The situation was normal, and

She herself did not let the race down.

So that afternoon, she said to me:

“Sit by me, mon cheri, and order

A drink!”—Well! The waiter came

As was his duty, only to stand aghast

At the unspeakable scandal of a

Full-blooded French woman kissing

This merde of a black man openly and

Full on the lips!—Purebred son of

The Galls, his first impulse

Was to smash his tray at the black head

And shriek out for help to the army of riot

Police permanently stationed on the streets

Of the Latin Quarter…—But

He was a non-violent man, and besides,

He had the customer’s tip to think of.

So he turned to me, swallowing hard, and

With controlled French politeness, he said:

“M’sieur, please sit OPPOSITE the lady—

“Yes, with the sacre table between you, face

To face—Or mon cul, dammit, I shall

Not serve you!”—And I was still wiping off

Her lipstick, wondering what to do, when my lady

Spoke, her face red with indignation: “But

You’re mistaken! This one’s not like the rest,

“Can’t you see! He’s a bon sauvage, and has

Written such brilliant essays in impeccable French

“On the phallus of—pardon, the merits of Negritude!

Show him my dear!” she turned to me, “Show how well

“You quote Molière, Corneille, and—”But the waiter

Was already smiling and bowing:I had passed my test.

Femi Osofisan (Okinba Launko)

Babafemi Adeyemi Osofisan is a Nigerian professor and writer born on June 16, 1946 in Ogun State, Nigeria, who is well-known for his literary works that criticize societal issues and incorporate African traditional performances and surrealism in some of his plays. His plays often revolve around the struggle between good and evil. He is a didactic writer who aims to rectify the decaying state of society through his works. Additionally, he has written poetry under the pen name Okinba Launko.

Head Na King, a poem by Mamman Vatsa

Head Na King

Head na king

And king no dey

Carry load.

Look man wan

Look me disgrace.

Yi don carry meat

Enter my house for sale

Ebin if na my shokoto,

I go sale buy am all

I go sale buy am all.

Head na king

Mamman Vatsa 

Mamman Jiya Vatsa (OFR) was born on December 3rd, 1940. He was a General in Nigerian Army and a poet. He was a member of the Supreme Military Council. Mamman Vasta was a lover of literature; he assisted the Children's Literature Association of Nigeria with funds and built a Writer's Village for the Association of Nigerian Authors. It is also noted that he hosed their annual conferences. The Writer's Village was named in his honour in January, 2013. He was executed by the military regime of General Ibrahim Babangida (his childhood friend) on 5th of March 1986 after he was convicted for treason in connection with an unsuccessful coup.

Indigenisation Without Mind, a poem by Mamman Vatsa

Indigenisation Without Mind

I asked the teacher

To teach him

My son

All about Africa

But she says

No suitable books

See our age

See the stage

We have reached

As a continent

But visit a nursery

The books

The toys

The tongue

All are imported.

My countrymen

How can indigenisation

Survive without the mind

Africa is a jungle

They say,

Why import a ladder

Into a jungle?

Well you can now see

For yourself

The economic hypocrisy.

Mamman Vatsa

Mamman Jiya Vatsa (OFR) was born on December 3rd, 1940. He was a General in Nigerian Army and a poet. He was a member of the Supreme Military Council. Mamman Vasta was a lover of literature; he assisted the Children's Literature Association of Nigeria with funds and built a Writer's Village for the Association of Nigerian Authors. It is also noted that he hosed their annual conferences. The Writer's Village was named in his honour in January, 2013. He was executed by the military regime of General Ibrahim Babangida (his childhood friend) on 5th of March 1986 after he was convicted for treason in connection with an unsuccessful coup.

The True Prison, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

The True Prison

It is not the leaking roof

Nor the singing mosquitoes

In the damp, wretched cell

It is not the clank of the key

As the warden locks you in

It is not the measly rations

Unfit for beast or man

Nor yet the emptiness of day

Dipping into the blankness of night

It is not

It is not

It is not

It is the lies that have been drummed

Into your ears for a generation

It is the security agent running amok

Executing callous calamitous orders

In exchange for a wretched meal a day

The magistrate writing into her book

A punishment she knows is undeserved

The moral decrepitude

The mental ineptitude

The meat of dictators

Cowardice masking as obedience

Lurking in our denigrated souls

It is fear damping our trousers

That we dare not wash

It is this

It is this

It is this

Dear friend, turns our free world

Into a dreary prison

Ken Saro-Wiwa 

Ken Saro-Wiwa (full name: Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa) was a Nigerian writer, television producer and activist, born in October 10th 1941 in Bori near Port Harcourt in Nigeria. Saro-Wiwa spoke against the country's military regime and Royal Dutch/Shell for the destruction of the environment of the Ogoni people, in his hometown of Rivers state. He was executed on November 10th 1995 in Port Harcourt after being tried by a special military tribunal for allegedly orchestrating the murder of Ogoni chiefs in a pro-government meeting. Subsequently, he was hanged by the military dictator of Nigeria, General Sani Abacha. This act of injustice aroused international outrage and led to Nigeria's suspension from the Commonwealth of Nations for more than three years.

For Sr. Majella McCarron, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

For Sr. Majella McCarron

Sr. M, my sweet soul Sr.,

What is it, I often ask, unites

County Fermanagh and Ogoni?

Ah, well, it must be the agony,

The hunger for justice and peace

Which married our memories

To a journey of faith.

How many hours have we shared

And what oceans of ink poured

From fearful hearts beating together

For the voiceless of the earth!

Now, separated by the mighty ocean

And strange lands, we pour forth

Prayers, purpose and pride

Laud the integrity of ideals

Hopefully reach out to the grassroots

Of your Ogoni, my Fermanagh.

Ken Saro-Wiwa 

Ken Saro-Wiwa (full name: Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa) was a Nigerian writer, television producer and activist, born in October 10th 1941 in Bori near Port Harcourt in Nigeria. Saro-Wiwa spoke against the country's military regime and Royal Dutch/Shell for the destruction of the environment of the Ogoni people, in his hometown of Rivers state. He was executed on November 10th 1995 in Port Harcourt after being tried by a special military tribunal for allegedly orchestrating the murder of Ogoni chiefs in a pro-government meeting. Subsequently, he was hanged by the military dictator of Nigeria, General Sani Abacha. This act of injustice aroused international outrage and led to Nigeria's suspension from the Commonwealth of Nations for more than three years.

Prison Song, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

Prison Song

Bedbugs, fleas and insects

The howl of deranged suspects

The dark night bisect

Rudely breaking my nightmare

And now widely awake

I’m reminded of this crude place

Shared with unusual inmates.

Ken Saro-Wiwa

Ken Saro-Wiwa (full name: Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa) was a Nigerian writer, television producer and activist, born in October 10th 1941 in Bori near Port Harcourt in Nigeria. Saro-Wiwa spoke against the country's military regime and Royal Dutch/Shell for the destruction of the environment of the Ogoni people, in his hometown of Rivers state. He was executed on November 10th 1995 in Port Harcourt after being tried by a special military tribunal for allegedly orchestrating the murder of Ogoni chiefs in a pro-government meeting. Subsequently, he was hanged by the military dictator of Nigeria, General Sani Abacha. This act of injustice aroused international outrage and led to Nigeria's suspension from the Commonwealth of Nations for more than three years.

Mama Came Calling, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

Mama Came Calling

She came visiting today

The lovely little lady

In her hand a dainty meal

Of nutless palm fruits

A long-forgotten delicacy

From my childhood days

Into which I dug my teeth

As my baby gums her breasts

And found therein once again

The milky sweet of a mother’s blessings.

Ken Saro-Wiwa 

Ken Saro-Wiwa (full name: Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa) was a Nigerian writer, television producer and activist, born in October 10th 1941 in Bori near Port Harcourt in Nigeria. Saro-Wiwa spoke against the country's military regime and Royal Dutch/Shell for the destruction of the environment of the Ogoni people, in his hometown of Rivers state. He was executed on November 10th 1995 in Port Harcourt after being tried by a special military tribunal for allegedly orchestrating the murder of Ogoni chiefs in a pro-government meeting. Subsequently, he was hanged by the military dictator of Nigeria, General Sani Abacha. This act of injustice aroused international outrage and led to Nigeria's suspension from the Commonwealth of Nations for more than three years.

Victory Song, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

Victory Song 

You have raped my land

Black brother, silenced my song

Upon my wholesome breath—

Condemned to a gas dungeon

I suffocate, shriek in pain

Into cold, stone-stuffed ears.

Your fingers drip with my blood

Staining your nails black and crude.

Vampire, tyrant, rapist

Black brother of the same womb

But cruel as the flares that burn

Poisonous gases into our skies.

I lie manacled in chain

In caves of your callous care

But the day will come when I will

break your hard bones

With my claws tear your brain

Consume you in wrathful fires

To the wild winds expose you

Paint the cruel marks of your sin

On the walls of history.

Then shall I, triumphant

Return to our hapless mother

With bright bouquets of peace.

Ken Saro-Wiwa 

Ken Saro-Wiwa (full name: Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa) was a Nigerian writer, television producer and activist, born in October 10th 1941 in Bori near Port Harcourt in Nigeria. Saro-Wiwa spoke against the country's military regime and Royal Dutch/Shell for the destruction of the environment of the Ogoni people, in his hometown of Rivers state. He was executed on November 10th 1995 in Port Harcourt after being tried by a special military tribunal for allegedly orchestrating the murder of Ogoni chiefs in a pro-government meeting. Subsequently, he was hanged by the military dictator of Nigeria, General Sani Abacha. This act of injustice aroused international outrage and led to Nigeria's suspension from the Commonwealth of Nations for more than three years.

Keep Out of Prison, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

Keep Out of Prison

‘Keep out of prison,’ he wrote

‘Don’t get arrested anymore.’

But while the land is ravaged

And our pure air poisoned

When streams choke with pollution

Silence would be treason

Punishable by a term in prison.

Ken Saro-Wiwa 

Ken Saro-Wiwa (full name: Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa) was a Nigerian writer, television producer and activist, born in October 10th 1941 in Bori near Port Harcourt in Nigeria. Saro-Wiwa spoke against the country's military regime and Royal Dutch/Shell for the destruction of the environment of the Ogoni people, in his hometown of Rivers state. He was executed on November 10th 1995 in Port Harcourt after being tried by a special military tribunal for allegedly orchestrating the murder of Ogoni chiefs in a pro-government meeting. Subsequently, he was hanged by the military dictator of Nigeria, General Sani Abacha. This act of injustice aroused international outrage and led to Nigeria's suspension from the Commonwealth of Nations for more than three years.

Dis Nigeria Sef, a poem by Ken Saro-Wiwa

Dis Nigeria Sef

Your own come pass two hundred:

Sanu, ekaro, deeyira, tank you, doo

kakifo, nonsense, you no go fit take one!

Nigeria, you too like borrow borrow

You borrow money, cloth you dey borrow

You borrow motor, you borrow aeroplane

You borrow chop, you borrow drink

Sotey you borrow anoder man language

Begin confuse am with your confusion

Anytin you borrow you go confuse am to nonsense

Idiot debtor, wetin you go do

When de owners go come take dem tings?

Ken Saro-Wiwa 

Ken Saro-Wiwa (full name: Kenule Beeson Saro-Wiwa) was a Nigerian writer, television producer and activist, born in October 10th 1941 in Bori near Port Harcourt in Nigeria. Saro-Wiwa spoke against the country's military regime and Royal Dutch/Shell for the destruction of the environment of the Ogoni people, in his hometown of Rivers state. He was executed on November 10th 1995 in Port Harcourt after being tried by a special military tribunal for allegedly orchestrating the murder of Ogoni chiefs in a pro-government meeting. Subsequently, he was hanged by the military dictator of Nigeria, General Sani Abacha. This act of injustice aroused international outrage and led to Nigeria's suspension from the Commonwealth of Nations for more than three years.

Saturday at Ikok, a poem by Mamman Vatsa

Saturday at Ikok

Today na big day

Man must drink

From dis funda*

To dat funda

Woman must drink

Man from funda

To funda

*funda – Hotel

Mamman Vatsa 

Mamman Jiya Vatsa (OFR) was born on December 3rd, 1940. He was a General in Nigerian Army and a poet. He was a member of the Supreme Military Council. Mamman Vasta was a lover of literature; he assisted the Children's Literature Association of Nigeria with funds and built a Writer's Village for the Association of Nigerian Authors. It is also noted that he hosed their annual conferences. The Writer's Village was named in his honour in January, 2013. He was executed by the military regime of General Ibrahim Babangida (his childhood friend) on 5th of March 1986 after he was convicted for treason in connection with an unsuccessful coup.

Fragments Out Of The Deluge VIII: But The Sunbird by Christopher Okigbo

BUT the Sunbird –

Listen under the oilbean shadows –

Repeats, repeats,

over the oilbean shadows …

A fleet of eagles

over the oilbean shadows

Holds the square

under curse of their rank breath.

Beaks of bronze, wings of

hard-tanned felt,

The eagles flow

over man mountains,

Steep walls of voices,

horizons;

The eagles furrow

dazzling over the voices

With wings like

combs in the wind’s hair

Out of the solitude,

The fleet,

out of the solitude,

Intangible

like the silk thread of the sunlight,

The eagles ride low,

resplendent… resplendent …

And small birds sing in shadows,

Wobbling under their bones.

So squatting,

A blind dog howls at his godmother –

YUNICE at the passageway,

Singing the moon to sleep over the hills,

YUNICE at the passageway –

Give him no chair, they say,

The crier of the dawn,

Riding with gods and the angry stars

Toward the great sunshine.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

The Power and Glory of Memory by Funso Aiyejina

Death, awesome in its totalitarian amour of conceit

Throws arrogant affronts in the face of humanity

Ignoring the power and the glory of memory

Our immortal antidote against the sting of mortality

Our invincible armour against all doctored history

The gentle fingers of dew drops forming before sunrise

On whose invisible wings the promise of bloom rides

Over generations of sand dunes, along the primal path

Of Ogun, pathfinders and pathmender, to an oasis of hope …

Today, men of iron have banished past truths and deeds

And decreed their hirelings into new royal legends

To be installed in bunkers inside custom built palaces

Fitted out with regulation pools, overflowing with milk –

Human milk; protected by blind, deaf and mute walls

Designed to shut out the babble of the market place

Insulate their royal highnesses within a magical comfort

From which, unhindered, they continue to mastermind us

Into the holding bays designed into their castles.

For consolation, let us tickle the armpit of memory

Awake, into gentle horses of speech on whose back

We may ride triumphant into the eternal city of hope

Submerged somewhere inside our past ruins and scope

And beyond to when kings kept faith with their subjects

and watched over the teeming masses in the markets

Listening intensely and always to bold human voices

Intuiting muttered hopes into fulfilled prophecies

Such that the people saw and hailed them as wise

Prostrating themselves, before and after, in gratitude.

Funso Aiyejina

Funso Aiyejina (born in 1949 in Ososo, Edo State) is a Nigerian academic, poet and playwright. He graduated from the University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife where he lectured. He also lectured at the University of the West Indies, Trinidad and Tobago and at Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri.

Transition by Christopher Okigbo

Drop of dew on green bowl fostered

on leaf green bowl grows under the lamp

without flesh or colour;

under the lamp into stream of song, streamsong,

in flight into the infinite –

a blinded heron

thrown against the infinite –

where solitude

weaves her interminable mystery under the lamp.

The moonman has gone under the sea:

the singer has gone under the shade.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

Before They Came Calling in the Middle of the Night by Funso Aiyejina

Way back when, before chickens became toothless
And turned champion devourers of back-up grains …
Before drunk agents came crashing into our dreams
Armed and ready to arrest metaphors in our streams
On the orders of a General high on syndicated acclaims
Galloping full-speed ahead of our children’s fervent pleas,
I believed with the innocent citizens of our nation
In the open-arm one-on-one embrace of salutation.
But after seeing wily foxes at work in our forests
Spiders spinning deadly webs in and out of contexts,
I now know why, even as they bury comrades freshly killed
Fists of the children of Soweto remain forever clenched.

We have always had their likes: inheritors and usurpers
Who, too cowardly to confront the truths in our songs
Would don the dirty garb of aberrant masquerades
Determined to waylay and strangle singers of tales
Long before the ascension of this General Tortoise.
Today, descendants of those same insolent renegades,
Protected by the anonymity of their choice profession,
Courageously finger the homes of witnesses of truth
Forgetting like their ancestors now condemned to oblivion
That the outstanding relatives of a condemning finger
Are inevitably aimed back at the heart of the pointer.
Whatever darkness conceals, dawn is bound to reveal.

Why argue with men who insist they are really clad
In exotic robes when it is too dark to investigate?
Let them dance. Let them prance. Like the intoxicated.
Daylight, when it arrives on the silent wings of dawn
Will reveal them as wearers of rags before the town.
Men like them are not new; we always had their kind:
Men who conveniently forget that when an order
Fit only for slaves is forced on us we must deliver
Such with the wisdom and courage of the free
Instead of kicking in wide open doors with glee.
To such men our ancestors sent collective ritual curses
Causing them to die abominable deaths, swollen with greed.

Funso Aiyejina

Funso Aiyejina (born in 1949 in Ososo, Edo State) is a Nigerian academic, poet and playwright. He graduated from the University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife where he lectured. He also lectured at the University of the West Indies, Trinidad and Tobago and at Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri.

The Dialogue by Funso Aiyejina

Perched on his balcony of pleasure,

beside a range of gifts,

the King asked the Poet

who stood below to pay homage:

“How are my people faring

on this beautiful day?”

The Poet stretched his ostrich neck

and readied the traditional trick

of “We thank our God and our King by whose twin grace

our heads still sit on our necks…”

but the lie choked his weaverbird throat,

and instead he answered:

“Your Highness, your people are too hungry

to see the beauty of any day;

things are getting worse by the day

as we wait for the better days

which you promised this time last season,

the same promise we’ve always heard

from the echo of every voice

that has ever occupied that throne

upon which you sit”

Livid, like a seven-baralled thunder

the King withdrew with his gifts

and the Poet starved with the people.

Funso Aiyejina

Funso Aiyejina (born in 1949 in Ososo, Edo State) is a Nigerian academic, poet and playwright. He graduated from the University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife where he lectured. He also lectured at the University of the West Indies, Trinidad and Tobago and at Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri.

Fragments Out Of The Deluge V: Upon An Empty Sarcophagus by Christopher Okigbo

UPON an empty sarcophagus

out of solid alabaster,

A branch of giant fennel,

on an empty sarcophagus …

Nothing suggests accident

where the beasts

Are finishing their rest:

Smoke of ultramarine and amber

Floating above the fields after

moonlit rains

From tree unto tree distils

the radiance of a king …

You might as well see the new branch

in ENKI;

And that is no new thing either …

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

eye of the celibate women by Lillian Akampurira Aujo

in the eye of the celibate women
lies a dancing rainbow-ed cloud
and a garland of beautiful-legged men
lean and clean as celestial stags
no hunks of hearts
hanging on strings
no haunted cries
clanging the air
only the green thrum
of buttercups pinked
& witches’ tits tight as drums
coming alive in fields & streams

Lillian Akampurira Aujo

Lillian Aujo is a Ugandan author. In 2009, She was the first winner of the first BN poetry prize by Babishai Niwe (BN) Poetry Foundation . In 2015, she was longlisted for, and won the Inaugural Jalada Prize for Literature for her story "Where pumpkin leaves dwell".

Fragments Out Of The Deluge VII: And From Frame Of Iron by Christopher Okigbo

AND FROM frame of iron

came HE,

In mould of iron …

and he ate the dead lion,

and was within the corpse …

which is not the point;

And who says it matters

which way the kite flows,

Provided movement is around

the burning market,

The centre-

So lilies

Sprouted from rosebeds,

Canalilies,

Like tombstones from pavements;

And to the cross in the void

came pilgrims,

Came floating with burnt-out tapers:

Past the village orchard

where FLANNAGAN

Preached the Pope’s message,

To where drowning nuns suspired,

Asking the KEY-WORD from stone,

and he said:

To sow the fireseed among grasses,

and lo,

To keep it till it burns out …

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

Sacrifice by Christopher Okigbo

Thundering drums and cannons

in palm grove:

the spirit is in ascent.

I have visited,

on palm beam imprinted

my pentagon –

I have visited, the prodigal…

In palm grove

long drums and cannons:

the spirit in the ascent.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

discovery by Lillian Akampurira Aujo

we wonder how to un-tether

from the wreaths of our pasts;

what weaves the sea,

the waves together

where our tears gather

in dirge

bewailing the heft of loss

& sinking

in

un-belonging

wishing to unlock

the noose of un-fitting

Lillian Akampurira Aujo

Lillian Aujo is a Ugandan author. In 2009, She was the first winner of the first BN poetry prize by Babishai Niwe (BN) Poetry Foundation . In 2015, she was longlisted for, and won the Inaugural Jalada Prize for Literature for her story "Where pumpkin leaves dwell".

Lustra by Christopher Okigbo

So would I to the hills again
so would I
to where springs the fountain
there to draw from
and to hilltop clamber
body and soul
whitewashed in the moondew
there to see from

So would I from my eye the mist
so would I
through moonmist to hilltop
there for the cleansing

Here is a new-laid egg
here a white hen at midterm.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

A Letter To Lynda, a poem by Funso Aiyejina

A Letter To Lynda

But today I would join you, travelling river,

borne down the years of your patientest flowing,

past pains that would wreck us, sorrows arrest us,

hatred that washes us up on the flats;

and moving on through the plains that receive us,

processioned in tumult, come to the sea.

– Edward Brathwaite

Dear Lynda,

What is incalculably far from us

in point of distance can be near us.

Short distance is not itself nearness.

Nor is great distance remoteness . . .

Martin Heidegger

We who have been separated into one

by the troubled waters of the Atlantic ocean

and united into two by our uncommon pasts,

we must learn with those who have travelled

the snail’s trail with the tortoise

that those chased into rocky limits

must grow to pelt boulders at their assailants;

that seas reflect only objects above their surfaces,

none but divers may perceive secrets buried in their wombs;

and that those abandoned to the mercy of water

must practise to swim like the fish or perish.

I who have wandered across mountains

and across valleys in search of history,

I have recognized myself in the scars

of those who have survived the misdeeds

and the greed of our common ancestors,

ancestors who pandered to the passions

of pale gods from the Atlantic and the Sahara,

ancestors who grovelled after beads after mirrors and

after liquid fires with which to prop their sagging genitals,

ancestors who fashioned crude tools with which they punctured

our radiant early morning dew-drops

so that today our twin summer noons

embrace the same mad ocean of our related pasts.

Now I dip my soul into the ink-well

of our past and write to you

across the virulent atlantic pages of our separation;

I sing of you, muse with the full-moon face,

the magic egg of my many journeys,

native of the twin islands of Trinidad and Tobago,

the terminal colon that stands your archipelago

in anticipation of future explications.

Lest we should forget so very soon

why progenitors of thunder-wielding ancestors

now chew grass beneath our ghettoes’ dirt heaps,

let us remember our related betrayals:

the chains the whips the sea and the sun,

let us remember your stray islands

which are bracketed between two visible Americas and appositioned to an invisible Africa

and a far Far East;

let us remember so as never to forget.

Antigua

where if you ask what the Kings chamber pot has

in common with the Princess who,

virgin no more, came on honeymoon in the sun,

you will be told by a proud black guide

that they both shared Clarence House on

Shirley’s Height which overlooks an English Harbour

away from the shores of England;

where too, at their Carnival, men reverse ancestral taboos

as mere mortals whip bull-homed masquerades

to the tune of God Save the Queen.

Barbados,

the nearest to and the furthest from Mother Africa,

where the apoplectic froth and foam

of Bathsheba Beach mock the complacency of the populace

(Bathsheba, concubine to King Solomon, Bathsheba, Mother of the Lion of Judah, the Jah in Jamaica,

I celebrate your anger;

if the Pacific so desires, let it stay peaceful,

it was never baptised with the blood of slaves);

and at Bridgetown’s Harbour,

overseen by Admiral Horatio Nelson,

you can watch the beach boys dive adroitly

for coins tossed by sun-hunters

from abroad the Jolly Roger

into the dark muck of the harbour,

and when the winner surfaces with a large grin,

he is greeted by the silver flash of the cameras

that mask the faces of the offspring of our past massas,

(but some day, dem beach boys going to dive

deep down, deeper down than dem tourists’ copper coins,

into the womb of our past to bring alive skeletons

that name the nameless names whose sweat

built these islands in the sun;

but until then,

let dem tourists keep on tossing dem coins

in the name of God, the Father,

God, the Son, and God, the Holy Ghost);

Amen.

Amen to Grenada

(the youngest cousin of Cuba, Cuba, that gonad

of our thunder), Amen to Grenada

where the little people of a little place

have shown that to be grenade-shaped

is not in itself enough for those

who wish to say no in thunder

from under.

Guyana,

(the home of Pat, the widow of our Walter),

Guyana, the land of failed leaders

and evaporating hopes,

we await the fulfiIment

of the thunder in your clouds.

Jamaica

gateway for Jah, the King of Kings,

where we went to the super –

market and found nothing for supper,

a nation under siege from itself,

a mecca where not even the gods are safe

as macho-men replace their manhood with guns

and advance the background sound of war

in their reggae to the frontdoors of their lives,

a haven where the failures of Man

have led the women to invite the Sea

into their thirsting wombs.

St. Lucia

Fair Helen that is fair no more

now that redeemers of every persuasion

go dim once they have become popular

and the fires of your fire-eaters are no match

for Soufriere’s spit-fire and the lightning thunder

that heralds the hurricanes into Castries.

Trinidad and Tobago,

the last of the archipelago,

a land muddy with the rust of several pasts,

a nation where the leaders start every race

as loud and clear as the cascading water of Maracas

but soon grow slow and devious like the Caroni river

which, navigable no more, now teams up with the Orinoco

to turn the blue of the sea

into the brown of barren deserts.

But above all,

I celebrate the one who says that inspite of all,

let there be a new beginning;

I will strap her like a diver’s goggles

and go in search of the clues

to our future imperfect

so that, as the Niger flows into the Atlantic

that washes the early morning face of the Caribbean,

we shall flow together to create new lives

who will swing no more between two extremes

like strung-up hammocks

still only when dormant,

they will learn neither the language

of the ancestors who sold us

nor that of those who bought us,

they will learn only the language

with which the land communes with the sea

such that they will grow to know

if one conspires to offer them

as sacrifices to the other.

Extend

my warm regards to Mum and Dad

brothers and sisters and our mutual friends;

may history preserve us together into the future.

Fondly yours,

Funso Aiyejina,

Ile-Ife,

January, 1981

Funso Aiyejina

Funso Aiyejina (born in 1949 in Ososo, Edo State) is a Nigerian academic, poet and playwright. He graduated from the University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife where he lectured. He also lectured at the University of the West Indies, Trinidad and Tobago and at Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri.

Fragments Out of the Deluge X: But at The Window by Christopher Okigbo

BUT at the window

Outside

at the window,

A shadow –

Listen. Listen again under the shadow…

Give me a spooknif, and shave my long beard …

The Sunbird sings again

From the LIMITS of the dream,

The Sunbird sings again

Where the caress does not reach,

of Guernica,

On whose canvas of blood,

The newsprint-slits of his tongue cling to glue…

& the cancelling out is complete.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

equilibrium by Lillian Akampurira Aujo

believe it or not

I keep a lithe gnome

in the cup of my bra

who nips at my spine

all day and all night

I pay him in milk

and he leaps like a lark;

a frisson to my nerves

zapping tablespoons

to clinking frenzy

What such luck! My mother cries

& I slip my good tongue

into the red cave of my mouth

Lillian Akampurira Aujo

Lillian Aujo is a Ugandan author. In 2009, She was the first winner of the first BN poetry prize by Babishai Niwe (BN) Poetry Foundation . In 2015, she was longlisted for, and won the Inaugural Jalada Prize for Literature for her story "Where pumpkin leaves dwell".

Bridge, a poem by Christopher Okigbo

Bridge

I am standing above you and tide

above the noontide,

Listening to the laughter of waters

that do not know why:

Listening to incense…

I am standing above the noontide

with my head above it,

Under my feet float the waters:

tide blows them under.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

Eyes Watch the Stars by Christopher Okigbo

Eyes open on the beach,

eyes open, of the prodigal;

upward to heaven shoot

where stars will fall from.

Which secret I have told into no ear;

into a dughole to hold,

not to drown with –

Which secret I have planted into beachsand;

now breaks

salt-white surf on the stones and me,

and lobsters and shells in

iodine smell —

maid of the salt-emptiness,

sophisticreamy, native,

whose secret I have covered up with beachsand.

Shadow of rain

over sunbeaten beach,

shadow of rain

over man with woman.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

Overture by Christopher Okigbo

Before you, mother Idoto,

naked I stand,

before your watery presence,

a prodigal,

leaning on an oilbean,

lost in your legend…

Under your power wait I

on barefoot,

watchman for the watchword

at heavensgate;

out of the depths my cry

give ear and hearken.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

When The Monument... by Funso Aiyejina

For Walter Rodney and Ngugi wa Thiong’o

When the monuments to our past

are whittled down by new facts

and our dew drops of change

are sacrificed on the altar of state security,

we awake to the knowledge that

pebbles lodged in muddy ponds

must grow muddy with time…

Now that our messiahs have chased our dreams

from the sacred corners of our hearts

into the blind alleys of our ghettoes

where they proceed to slaughter them

before our astonished imagination

summoning history to witness their feast,

it is time we rejected those who

have severed the link between prayer and miracles,

those who mock our voices with great signboards

which proclaim only fairy-tale projects

and those who make us build the podia

on which they stand to salute our misery

on every anniversary of the revolution.

Funso Aiyejina

Funso Aiyejina (born in 1949 in Ososo, Edo State) is a Nigerian academic, poet and playwright. He graduated from the University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife where he lectured. He also lectured at the University of the West Indies, Trinidad and Tobago and at Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri.

Lament of the Flutes by Christopher Okigbo

TIDEWASH… Memories

fold-over-fold free-furrow

mingling old tunes with new.

Tidewash…..Ride me

memories, astride on firm

saddle, wreathed with white

lillies & roses of blood…..

Sing to the rustic flute:

Sing a new note…

Where are the Maytime flowers,

where the roses? What will the

Watermaid bring at sundown,

a garland? A handful of tears?

Sing to the rustic flute:

Sing a new note…

Comes Dawn

gasping thro worn lungs,

Day breathes,

panting like torn horse –

We follow the wind to the fields

Bruising grass leafblade and corn…

Sundown: I draw in my egg head.

Night falls

smearing sore bruises with Sloan’s

boring new holes in old sheets –

We hear them, the talkative pines,

And nightbirds and woodnymphs afar off…

Shall I answer their call,

creep on my underself

out of my snug hole, out of my shell

to the rocks and the fringe for cleansing?

Shall I offer to Idoto

my sandhouse and bones,

then write no more snow-patch?

Sing to the rustic flute.

Sing a new note.

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

The Stars Have Departed by Christopher Okigbo

The stars have departed

The sky in a monocle

Surveys the world under

The stars have departed

And I- Where am I? ?

Stretch, stretch O antennae,

To clutch at this hour,

Fulfilling each movement in a

Broken monody

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

Fragments Out of The Deluge IX: And to Us They Came by Christopher Okigbo

AND TO US they came –

(Malisons, malisons, mair than ten)

And climbed the bombax

and killed the Sunburn.

And they scanned the forest of oilbean,

its approach,

Surveyed its high branches…

And they entered into the forest,

And they passed through the forest,

oil oilbean,

And found them,

the twin-gods of the forest:

The grove was damp with airs,

with airs

the leaves,

And morndew beckoned, beckoned afar

from the oilbean trees,

From the branches of the gods of IRKALLA.

Within it –

within me –

Not a stir,

not a dead leaf whispered,

Splitting the dawnlit silence;

Not the still breath of the gods of IRKALLA.

Then the beasts broke –

(Malisons, malisons, mair than ten)

And dawn-gust grumbled,

fanning the grove

Like a horse-tail-man,

like the handmaid of dancers,

Fanning their trembling branches.

Their talons,

they drew out of their scabbard,

Upon the tree trunks,

as if on fire-clay,

Their beaks they sharpened,

And spread like eagles their felt-wings,

and descended,

Descended upon the twin-gods of IRKALLA.

And the ornaments of him,

And the beads about his tail;

And the carapace of her,

And her shell,

they divided.

And the gods lie in state

And the gods lie in state

without the long-drum.

And the gods lie unsung

And the gods lie

veiled only with mould,

Behind the shrinehouse.

Gods grow out,

abandoned;

And so do they…

Christopher Okigbo

Christopher Ifekandu Okigbo was born in 1930. He was a Nigerian poet and he is today widely acknowledged as one of the most outstanding postcolonial English-language African poets and one of the major modernist writers of the twentieth century. He died in 1967 while fighting for the independence of Biafra.

To Ararimeh at Two by Funso Aiyejina

Blessed are they who know how to deploy anger

In the defense of dreams; against nightmares.

They shall inherit futures brimming with life

Forever succulent like the flesh of the cactus …

Blessed are they who know how to deploy anger

Against sages who boast of knowing the prayer

With which to embrace the baobab tree of wisdom

But who, come mid-night, sneak off to the vulture

With multiple offerings – escorts to secret requests

For instant cures for their hereditary baldness …

Against those quick to arrest whispering leaves

But never deem it fit to question raging storms

Which alone sow the seed of recurrent restlessness

Among the virgin branches of our forest of a thousand dreams.

You point angry fingers at their stars

Whenever they crash into our laughter

Via their channel 9 at 9, every night.

Does their rank arrogance recall those nights:

Your pre-conscious encounters with their agents

Who embraced darkness, made it their garment

And were guided to us by hooded informants?

Do you wonder why as one of their many victims

I do not join you in pointing my rage at them?

Do you wonder what has become of my gift of anger?

The well is silent: The well is shallow: A child’s logic!

I am pointing. I am angry: If only you could see into my head!

But not at those who hold the yams and the knives. No.

They are well out of it. Even as they sign our death warrants.

Look beyond them, beyond their thrones, to aide-de-camps

Stiff with the anticipation of a future to be measured in gold:

First ladies lodged in the sanctuary of State Houses

Concubines recruited from virgins’ pools by trusted aides

At home in safe houses and unlisted official annexes

All equipped with state of the art basement chambers

Designed for the ultimate comfort of those parrots

Who are too daft to learn from the three wise monkeys.

Blessed are they who live to celebrate their dreams

They shall not number among the framed and accidentalized.

Funso Aiyejina

Funso Aiyejina (born in 1949 in Ososo, Edo State) is a Nigerian academic, poet and playwright. He graduated from the University of Ife, now Obafemi Awolowo University, Ile-Ife where he lectured. He also lectured at the University of the West Indies, Trinidad and Tobago and at Lincoln University in Jefferson City, Missouri.