Dirge of the Last Lap

I The loud, cruel laughter of dirge besieges us so greatly in the face of wanton humiliation. It comes mightily, crashing our aged city walls, unearthing the foundations of churches, tolling bells in pulsated grief . . . Dirge comes with thunder, like the trumpets and horns of treachery common with lachrymose compositions; when rain suddenly comes, we fret visibly. The events of dirge are colourless, edgy and heartless — they speak of the signs of the times towards the last drawn-curtain of each playing age; they are impetuous and laconic, sweeping through homesteads unsuspecting and naïve towards such drab ceremonies. Tabloids are weary of lamentations; for, how long does one invoke imprecations on dirge, especially of the last lap . . . ? Oh, the stench of dirge pervades this place! Black banners litter streets. Banana stems smell of putrid languor, and handkerchiefs become salted specks of wail. Beyond this confusion, the loud, cruel cachinnation of dirge increases? pervasive, sending up whiffs of foul dismay that caress the brows of owls yonder and salute the cheery consternations of subterranean masquerades who fret before the courage of white assembly . . . How do you describe dirge, knower of all books? Have you once held dirge in between your palms? Is it true that it tastes quite like the shea butter of a rancid age? And you, physician, in truth, tell me? how do you measure the length of the loudness of dirge — are the length and loudness of this laughter related to its cruelty? Why I ask is because the laughter persists. II Strain your ears and listen? if this land on which this great evil was done is not cleansed, we are ruined. COMPATRIOT, WHAT EVIL DO YOU SPEAK OF? I mean the rape and desecration of the land, the arrest and detention of the virgin daughters of Okpolu, at the cornfield, behind the most treacherous darkness . . . But a faint moonlight hiding behind the tall breadfruit tree witnessed it all. Such incestuous rape! I fear greatly the manner of dirge this village shall compose if this land Is not cleansed, pumiced, swept . . . It might be the worst dirge ever — before or after — the one common with the last lap, and which cripples flatly a people. III Common lustre associated with baptisms are no more; promises of bright-coloured ribbons are broken at the entrance of yellow palm fronds’ rituals of stale summons. There really cannot be a resonance of gentle, plain hymns, for, the synopsis of a covetous dirge has just been published. IV So, what becomes our fate when Eclipse and Thunder hum a dirge together? It is like when Elephant and Hippopotamus — two highly honoured members of the pachyderm kindred —invade a farm. Our fate shall be like a torched forest in the heart of the Harmattan —with remnants of defiled foliage once luxuriant. And what becomes the fate of the last lap in this age of dirge — who weeps for it or asks dirge to hold its breath of torture? Dirge of the last lap and the last lap of dirge are silent Eclipse and rambunctious Thunder fused for eerie reverberations of echoes of dirge. V And the last lap becomes as tenuous as ever; and with laboured breath, it points its gaunt fingers towards our tendon. Obmutescent, its impatient pulse betrays principles of hate and grim patterns of expectations common with the puzzles and conundrums of the last lap.