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
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