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And the righteous shall know the wrath

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This tender bruised sun, heavy with the bulging anger of rain, settled into the horizon like a sore, as the boy wandered down the evening road. He had lost the slippers somewhere down the road, after the first drizzle, after the first crowd of boys had rushed him, after he had ran and fell into the manhole, after he had washed his bleeding knee, after the kind lady had given him a lift, after she had tried to kill him in her bathroom, after he had climbed through the window and broke his wrist on a flowerpot.  He stumbled near the parked cart filled to the brim with rubbish and rested his hands on the rim, catching his breath. He wiped the sweat from his brow and tried to wriggle his wrist to feel how painful it was. It was swollen. He sighed and pushed away from the cart but the owner, a madman dressed in rags, his face hidden behind the buzzing wings of black flies, stood before him, watching him with red angry eyes.  i will drop you off the earth,  the dun sun in the sky is a witnes
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We did nothing: A poem

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  the ground feeds us the song of the spun seasons.  The countrywide fire raze through the cocoon   of the many voices that we call home. it is there  we carry, all the dead, all the  harmattan seeds  bouying the waves of bird wings fleeing the opera  of silence. it is there we roll the mat into the maw  of godless yawn, like yam heads, we plant headstones  to count the teeth of war. where the footprints  of leaf boats sail into sunbeams still reeling  from the brightly lit fingers of missiles are,  you  will find the baby toes of flowers fluttering  out of the miserly dirt, eager like any child to play  with bullets, roll with tank wheels, dangle from the lip  of hellfire. The soil is soft with sin, thick like black  flies, the heat curling from its tongue like a pipe  smouldering with the ashen remains of many forgotten  names. where are our brothers & sisters? for widows  in weeds weeding  the plots of husbands whose  uncovered faces  or porous chests grow garlands that  little
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Come: a poem

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Let's break back on the sternum of this earth, grind the teeth of trees into the long legged noon. Come, is this not why we are here— to crush the towers of sky into the hungry bosom of the sea? Have we not been violent to the grass sticking their flimsy blades in retort? Have we not cooked the soil seeking for roasted nuts hiding golden seeds? Come, let's bend the waist of the wind into service, let it revolve, gods let it revolt the earth from the milky way into the distant stars dying their unwitnessed deaths. Come, let us be righteous about this, let us call the name of gods & carry their name like bloody axes into night. Come one, come all. Note: It has been a very long time since i bothered with this blog. So much has changed in my life since then. The blog still remains my room for poetry and experimentation. I hope that i will be able to bring to you both works that touch me and my own works that hopefully will touch you.  If you have been waiting for my return, tha
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JOURNEY MERCIES

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The road smoked a mirage; The tires screeched a skid. The bus made a superb ballet twirl And landed with a big splatter.
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Politician

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Nigerian Politician Herald of a beginning! Insane musings of the irate mob, Nerve numbing screams of the few. Set us free!! These chains squeeze!! Tongue lashings; Saliva splatter... Deadly venom on pink tongue; Killing the makeup of ministers, TV personalities, hungry aides And jaded journalists. We want change!!
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WHAT DO YOU SEE

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 Although the technological advances spearheaded by the western cultures have greatly improved the lot of Africans over time, it is sad to see us forget our own unique identity that made us the people we are. The present generation of children will never know moonlight tales or games; they will never understand the proverbs and nuances of their mother tongue; they will not find fun in the festivals and spectacles of their culture. This is sad. Is there no merging of the western culture with African identity? Are we to, therefore, leave the palm wine for the Chardonnays? *just thinking out loud*
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POETRY ON THE HIGHWAY

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The drab sameness; The cold grey and wet screen Of pouring dew blanketing the view Of nature’s mysteries, As this bus sways along The treacherous road to Benin Is all I see.
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