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Poem	Then spoke the thunder, shattering the looming blackness of our national life. The rumble that breaks a spell of the dry season – Saro-Wiwa, "The Storm Breaks" Does a zebra foal dream? Head lower, lower under lenticular dark cloud, he drags harlequin fetlocks, porcelain quails' egg hooflets through pimpling dust, slower, slower through the silver rainbow night, this soot and fester cellar-lighting, electricity of the blue and evil eye. Night ringed with eyes, gutter-glow of new-soused theatre, hyena, leopard, caracal (that caramel cat with ear tufts, anxious to feed her cubs) watching the lame foal weakened by drought. All you know is, that you don't know, and are afraid. Moonshadow where the big rocks laugh apart. Predator-senses. Cilia. Heat detectors crowd this long auditorium, segment after segment of the midnight shuffle-plains. They radar in on bodies, fluids, molecules of flesh that do not know they glow, they draw. Let's give him one dream-memory, a zebra wish fulfilled in dazing plod, some sheer green wall of sugarcane. And look - he's made it through into the bleach and blaze, rose curdling over indigo and lard, this granult scar of dawn. One more dawn nearer the water. Sky blood-taggled, blood-tufted, rushes over him like a white bowl at the end of things, the little safe horizon of a pilot's dial, an inventory of therapeutic gems.
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