Another Grave
When you watch how astonishingly the world moves on
From the fall of one iroko to the other,
How, one minute, eyes fill up
Like an overflowing river,
Then the next, mouths that stood agape,
As if to swallow death for swallowing their hero,
Drown in strong liquor,
Does it remind you of the vainness of striving?
When you look at him there in the box,
Still, in coats he cannot feel,
Nostrils an invitation to flies,
Do you see the essence of this hustling?
That a man who was made without permission to be made,
Who came into this world out of the merriment of two genitals,
Spent his breath chasing emptiness?
If the purpose of living is to die, // why celebrate the birthing of a death?
My mother roasts the plantains and dips each finger in oil.
I watch her joy as she passes it round, the celebration of a newborn,
Ya Ya Nkem eh, Ya Ya Nkem!
Ya Ya Nkem eh, Ya Ya Nkem!
Waists twirl through the compound,
An orchestra of loud voices.
The old man steps in, his kettle,
Carrying more prayers than wine,
“You shall wipe our tears and lead us well,
Cross the oceans we could never dare to;
Lord, hear us!”
Last week, Awung and Alem were lowered,
And in a day or a week,
A dirge will outdo these songs of delight,
For a new grave is born!
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