We dwelt together,
one hand on a door handle.
Keeping rooms --- a semi-settled living,
parents still squatting in our heads,
rent due spaces,
red buses passing below or above,
according to what level we rose to.
Domestic wreckage evacuated,
a small venerable van stuffed to the gills,
and we with our books
bundled up in raffia rafts,
cats tucked under shawls or coats,
escaping loudly on red bumpy buses.
It is the little things that haunt:
a florescent green plastic handbag,
maroon stockings
draped over a lava lamp,
fluffy toy animals
scented with relationships.
Shades of lipstick on a cracked mirror
unwashed rugby shirts,
the soft tang of old spice aftershave,
vinyl albums revolving in our heads.
I recall it all ---- but no,
not wanting to dwell again with the young,
but to follow the routes of London buses
to past, departures and destinations,
to enter again
those rooms for penniless delinquents,
just to tidy up a little, and perhaps
close drawers and doors left open.
Why do these guys quit before seventy?
After achievements Life on Earth empty!
There was to be a Macgregor Laird:
Before sixty-one years to rest laid...
For my avid interest in History,
I could not but alight on his story
With its private message from Greatness
"No, Mystery, no Magic: Eagerness!"
What had he shrewdly done: John Beecroft?
In their Britain left behind a voice soft
To in far-off lands hold her goals aloft
While him Portugal, Spain and, sure, France scoffed;
In West Africa's Fernando Po
Seeing that The Non British did lines toe:
In Nigeria's captured Bight of Benin
Ensuring that his men got their Quinine;
I reckon in the close Bight of Biafra
Giving out British bags not of raffia!
I could have for John Beecroft my hat doffed,
Just that when I last tried a patriot coughed.
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like nestling birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
The Human Eye, too, needs feeding,
The Screen, too, not Textbooks reading;
Things that translate into Thriller
Or-does it matter? – Time Filler
I myself would itch for Horror
And, if I can’t reach one, Terror:
Some eyes do die for The Mafia,
Some for Savages in Raffia.
What we see is Guessed Dilemma
Often waiting in Cinema
But aiming to mirror True Life
And Man serve as his guide in strife…
Later, The Pictures stop to move:
Just legs with vigor to prove;
Sound feet that should have to hurry
To catch some impatient lorry…
But some Ten Feet might not scramble,
Their owners seeming The Humble
Ready to hasty strides forget
And simply slide through Gentle Gate
It Theatre - Goers and A Tunnel
A Body of Water and Funnel.
Eyes of The Baffled;
His voice he muffled,
Feet no more shuffled;
He had felt ruffled.
A friend has been killed:
An Ending long willed,
For he had been billed
And warned would be stilled,
If he would not say
When he would debts pay
‘Here Hell’ from Raffia:
A World-Wide Mafia;
One member Sophia
Cheating lovers fear!
2. Title : Sofiya
Lovely, lovely so cute oh! 'Racemose'
Pinky lips, almondsized eyes even mock to rose.
In your vocal have a sweetness as 'Raffia'
You're only my dream girl oh! Sofia.
You're my heart's Reindeer,
I'm ready to die if you say dear.
The memories of passing time ever Reflex,
To be a relationship there isn't need of sex.
I want ever to place side by side you.
Sans you my life like the land sansdew.
God also ratify to our love,
I hope our relationship ever will be as same as dove.
Like a burst of confetti
They erupt into the corner store.
Tanned, long legged,
Laughing and pushing each other.
They toss their sun-bleached hair
And glance around to see
If people are watching.
Beach outfits – bikinis
Barely hidden under short
Skimpy coverups.
Sandals, high platform heels,
Gold or red or raffia
With sparkly decorations.
They find the cold soda case
And finally each picks out
Some favorite drink.
They giggle. One fixes
The strap on another’s sandal.
They shove each other
And double over into
Gales of laughter
Over some private joke.
Still giggling, they make their way
To the cashier, pay for their drinks,
And explode into the street
The same way they came in.
Those days.....
When men didn't attempt to cage the lion,
Domesticate the cobra or try to play god
Those days when men didn't dog breed, cat breed,
Moon walk or day dream
Nature wouldn't bark so violently
With climate change, earth quakes and Tsunamis
Those days when men knew the value of palmwine, kola nut,
Utaba and it's efficacy...the insidious aroma
Of smoked yam, dipped in palm oil, pepper and salt, rattled
Our air pipe under the comfortable thatch
Of raffia palm and Bamboo sticks;
Chop sticks were alien to us
Those days.....
When a hunter would not dare return home
Empty handed for fear of being labelled efulefu
Those days when loin cloth wrapped around our sacred neck;
Gray hair, bald head, and silver stricken beard
Oozed wisdom, knowledge and understanding
Those days.....
An hour before dawn,
the market people arrive
then settle like resting birds
beside the Ping river.
Girls squat over large straw hats,
hats brimful of dried chilies
or small freshwater fish.
They lay down bamboo mats
laden with okra, aubergines, mangosteens
and rambutan.
They are not from Chiang Mai
but are a Thai hill peoples,
villagers that have cycled through the night
to bring their produce here.
Carefully they wrap your choices
in newspaper bundles tied
with red raffia.
They offer this livelihood to us
with modest smiles.
A daily subsistence parceled with a grace
that can be felt as a currency, a simple act
of transference.
A few coins are exchanged.
The barter and haggle
of a busy city market is absent here
just the affable contact
of a hand to hand correspondence.
A mutual recognition
of the rivers that join us
and the oceans between.
They are not from Chiang Mai,
they are a tribal people
who speak a hill language.
They ride through the night
on bicycles to settle at dawn
beside the Ping River.
Girls' unroll rattan mats
squat beside straw hats brimful
with the tang of burgundy chilies
They have vegetables
grown in lime green waters,
parched salty anchovies,
and plump spearheads
of opalescent fish -
all these are bargained for,
bundled in newspaper,
tied with pink raffia.
Our lives cross here.
A few coins dropped into an open palm,
nods and smiles by a river,
a common currency bridging
alien worlds.
Amazed Bamboo trees
Raffia in Africa
A profound wonder!
The cry of my baby tears through the night, again
Waking everyone, including the birds whom use
our tattered raffia hut as nest
I know why she cries though
The small giant has used her long thin deadly
needle to bite her
Even though our outworn mosquito net is tattered
and now has holes as
big as a ditch
That gives you no permission to feast on us, for
we are still under its covering
I dragged my sleepy self up
Tied the points where old age and years of use has
caused our shield to tear
I carried my baby; put her mouth near my
sagging bosom
But with another thunderous wail, she declined
Now, I know my eyes will know no sleep
I reached for my raffia made broom under my
bamboo bed
And waited like a soldier with a gun
Broom in hand, I stood up and sang
A lullaby for her with my drowsy voice
She obliged and slept
And now the war has begun
Broom in hand, I sat on the piles of old and worn
out clothes
My baby and I use as mattress
Waiting like a soldier defending her territory
If our mosquito net is old and lacks strength
THIS BROOM WILL DO YOU JUSTICE!
How come Stephen,
When do you forget defence?
Why don't you hack death with your golden boot?
Do not disappoint me,
Do not let me down Keshi,
Your crown is medal-made;
Roam not with lilliputians
Whose blazer is calico
Whose utensil is mud
Whose bread is shaft and husk
Whose shelter is raffia...
But dwell among the giants
Who parade st. Joseph street in damask
And pop wine in holy Michael Crescent.
There you truly belong,
Flaunt your crown among Moses and Elijahs,
Flirt among Marys and Maras.
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult,
You are the Kilimanjaro, who can headbutt?
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult;
When the woodpecker pecks all,
Does it also peck banana tree?
Be not a pebble in any ghost's catapult,
You are the anvil, which termite can consume?
No, I will not meet you in dream,
I will not meet you in trance and vision;
Because you gave all you had,
Our tryst shall be Paradise.
Till then and for now big boss:
Head to head, chest to chest, hand to hand;
Knuckle, knuckle, knuckle.
Auf Wiedersehen !
Under the torch of the crescent moon
On bare pants and catty eyes
Our hearts yawn for the story line
Our ears gulp saliva, hungry to hear
The tasteful recipe that ooze so sweet
Beneath the canopy of the oha tree
Crossed legs on our raffia mats
Nothing else could cross our hungry minds
That had waited all through the crawling day
Mama dare not need me now
We calmly pray
As granny opened her wrinkled lip
That proved her scanty teeth
No matter how brown they are
It never faulted her warm smile
Nor the moral message that spiced it
But gave us warmth outside the chilly breeze
She carefully told those tales with lessons
And asked her questions too
But when we knew the story was over
Was when we woke from our spring beds
Memories are like visitors coming to pay us an august visit
Sitting on my veranda I reminisce about my childhood
I feel reawakened by the sweet sounds of okpotumtum
I am refreshed by the serene breeze from the sweet natural bounty of mother earth
I feel reawakened by the by the echoes of my infanthood
Tyres and wheels drawing tribal marks as little innocent bodies sweat under the scorching sun
The child of the raffia tree wither away to build a stomach infrastructure
They filled our pockets with the hope of quenching hunger
Standing in the rain, my ears are flooded with the sweet chants of rain go away come again another day
They feel the desire to play again as the gathering clouds disappear into the rising sun
The bullying heads creating an expression of gbongotio as I walk through the purple check republic
Ginik ob an expression of my intellectual innocence
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