Homeland Melodies

Strain your ears now
To hear decibels
Of sound,
Sound of songs,
Sound of homeland melodies
Learned at feet
Of pious mother,
Sitting with me
In a dark
Moonless night,
Starless night,
With rain threatening
And thunderstorms scolding,
With bats hovering
And mother's lamp
Our companion.

Music Of Mosquitoes

The prison portal ajar

Leading

To the domain of despair.

 

O eyes of conscience

Come,

Watch with me

This warped world

Where harassed humans,

Most making atonement

For sins not committed

Worry about wicked warders.

 

Between morning and noon

Half-boiled beans in bags

On wheel barrows arrive,

Breakfasts arrive with no condiments.

Harassed humans sit eating,

Still nursing skin lacerations.

 

On bare floors

They lie at night,

Spaces

Barely enough to stir.

Music of mosquitoes,

Music of their nights.

 

The Detectives’ Den

Screams,

Claims of innocence,

Pleas for mercy,

Screams.

The detectives’ den

Is full of hostages.

Desk Sergeants

Sit behind dilapidated desks

Counting ransoms,

Files

Brim with bail bonds.

Behind the desks

Banners beam;

“Police is your friend”,

“Bail is free”.

Skins

Are splashed with diseases,

Legs wobble,

Hands are handcuffed behind.

In quivering voices

Hostages

Strapped of cash

Beg for moratorium.

The rest of humanity

Hug

Indifference.

The Testimonies Are Threadbare

Miracle merchants

Mount microphones,

Miracles

Tumble in torrent.

Tithes

Tumble into tithe trunks,

Offerings

Submerge into offering sacks,

Suffering is on sabbatical.

Miracle seekers

One after another

Mount altars

Mouthing testimonies,

Their love for microphones

Immeasurable.

Shadows terrify them

And tie them to the togas

Of merchants of miracles.

The terrors tarry,

The miracles emerge,

The testimonies are threadbare.

The Coffin Carrying Courage

The requiem

Resounds,

The cries.

The tears

Cascade

On the city of coal.

The coffin carrying courage,

Clothed with cloth

Coloured green and white

Perch

Atop enu ugwu.

The bearded bard is here,

The masses

Are massed here

Moping tears,

Musing on their messiah.

From the bunker

Biafra

Bellows.