(after Amadioha went to a wet sleep)
.
.
For the Men who went during praises
Let your tears be of cheerful dreams
You are not forgotten in abyss
The glory of death shall be re-shadowed when the storm is over

This is the gullible of the vision-less attribute
For those women who cried Ozubulu! Ozubulu!! Ozubulu!!! before death
I have seen your agony wailing in the street
if this is the sand that unite us
Amadioha was insane when it all happened in his sleep....
Our shadows shall always cry
Our nose shall always smell your aroma in the darkness.
this is the cruelty of men of our land
those who didn't **** their mother's breast nine months
those whose father's names are cursed
those whose names bring shame
those whose mother's names are of sin.
we cry also, we weep all alone
go in peace women! go in peace men!
Ozubulu children,  Ozubulu wind & sun
are your traveling map hanging on the
fragments of the dusty lonely cloud!
For this journey is of shame and sorrow...
Our ashes & palmfrond shall remain with us
and your names shall not be forgotten.
.
.

©John Chizoba Vincent
FromARefusing_frustration.

Out-li-er /-, li(-e)r/ noun

this dance was dying of old age.
until I learnt to move a toe.
a dance of old woman trying to see
the sun rise from the sole of her feet. 
her survival outlived a snoring nose.
these holes were carved out from the
thigh of a ******* learning how
to lay on bed. Is this life so sweet to you? 
then, live it without answering a call
to the whispers of the wind to your ears. 

let's visit blank pages. 
of heroes unsung from our historical mouth. 
of those things or people situated away 
from or classed differently from our farms
or a related body translated from the hood.
let's see this images from the eyes of my father trying to be a man before his children.

yesterday,  my father made us to learn
from the school of the African heroes.
he taught us how to be special among all.
how to name extraordinary a friend...
through bridges built in a hardknock.
a lust day. a littered day. a little more griavience.
a little caution is not enough for the craving eyes

maybe. 
maybe not. 
that we survive in this planet.. 

we'll come by in the evening of November.
we'll try to ease out our thoughts.
Maybe you will understand where the
pains started. our legs. our feet. or history.

maybe.
maybe not.
that we survive this gory miseries.

this pains were carved from the tree. 
where the ghost of our ancestors danced. 
they created this basketful paths.
they are the outliers. the geniuses.

maybe.
maybe not.
that we survive after the apollo' creed. 

that we journeyed through this forest. 
the forest cultivated by their ancestral hands. 
until we learn to be like them.
carving history from stones.
Making the sky brighter.
We'll not survive through this modern dance.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration.

We opened a book that started with the name
of our country.
The right side was numbered corruptions  and the other side was numbered greed & bad leaders.
We burnt the stride of our bodies into aches and dreams waving away fire and foliage of silence.
Women learnt to carry portrait of bodies of their dead children on their shoulders, beautiful corpse.
It reminded us of the civil war in front of our Father's betrayed house.
It reminded us of lyrics written on the walls of our Hut with a framed keys of memories.
Love that taught us to look back into our heart and draw current of men in their ignorance in search
of a better home than those bridges we burnt.
Things like the pains in the eyes of a boy,
Things like the tale on the lips of a girl,
Things like sadness in the soul of a mother painting the images of her lost children in prayers.
Those strange tears stranded between chapters of the smoke as they travelled to the lonely cloud,
With the echoes of our forefathers last libation
Like the voices trailing from a boy's name for the lost of his prestige.
There are things that we may not know that leave our footprints to our heart through the opening in our nostrils and ears.
In our land was where a boy once stood on the face of the sun, his shadow reflected on a mirror.
He saw his future carted away by his fears.
Lost girls found in his assaulted plights
Trying to find home in a shark's mouth.
They hold water from the oceans together basking their hope on the traffic of women holding their bodies and leaving their dead for survival.
We do not live in the moon!
We do not whisper to the wind of the song we
heard him sing every day!
Of things that come in white and black are
like our straying country weeping with the
images of the masses.
Like those corpses brought back to BENUE.
Those images are the images of darkness projected by a big screen of the sky to our eyes.
Our names burnt into different rivers holding different tribes that seek for freedom.
We wrecked our testimonies to bleed blood with flames to suffocating cities surrounded with pity.
Those things on white are  the way we were built but the black demons corrupted us all leaving memories to sneak our hearts into dark places where mischievousness can take over us.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustrations.

There are those things that left our bodies when we were younger flying innocently...
Those bridges of pretentious smile that we took to our mother's  dimples to collect glories.
Those magic tears that once sliced loneliness off our shouldering lips,
Those bite and bite of unwanted hunger that beat us in the presence of our parents...
There are masquerade of innocent thoughts
Masquerade of shattered dreams at dusk,
Masquerade of fears that tortured us at dawn!
Those desks of forgotten hope in you.
We tried to gather ourselves together to bring the sun home to our flammable insight.
We tried to build the jungle on the palms of our forefathers...
We told our friends that our parents possess a lion at home,
We scared our enemies with the legging empire of our scattered home.
Those were the phases we left drifting into adulthood in pains.
We forgot our tattered thoughts climaxing into an orbiting wants and needs.
We papered the drive to become a better person.
We took our hand bags and put them in the air like  nothing would pull it down.
Under the rain,  we sang of Africa and the world
We demonstrated the right of humanity and love.
Those bridges burnt down gradually as we traveled
From childhood to adulthood.
As we journey with a thinking umbrella  that will protect us from the sun tomorrow.
Those are the things I keep remembering now.
The song we sang under the rain...
The snails we picked in the night with a strange lamp we stole from a neighbour.
The girls we touched their ******* and killed them with shyness.
The boys we sent away from home that never returned!
The fishes we trapped under the small water we made their home.
The blind village beggars we stole their money in the dark...
They are those things we left behind as we walked into adulthood with laughter of hyenas pains.!



©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingfrustration

Of those things that glamour for clarity
Of those roads that sipped dead calls
Of those shadows that retrieved retributions panache of the smoke that chased blunt images,
We are here for the death of our dead ones,
We are here to breeze out bodies from the ghost of our forefathers giving out beggars of spirits.
We are here for the sake of humanism and individualism found among the seasoned weather.
We are here to head home from the figures of fingers crossed in the blossoming crossroads.
We are just here for your sake &your future.
We are this spiced pumpkin skin driving impunity,
Driving the heavens of our lunatic fringe benefits.
When these spirits visited our forebearers,
We called them runners of evil in the night,
In the morning,  we called them cats of love,
But the white brought a foreign god to us
We sold our shrine of mystic miseries to them
Now,  they took our miseries to make names
And we transport their stupidity back to them
Thinking that they will accept it back from us.
This celestial aboundment is foregone fire
Forging the spirit of the world into our curriculum.
We are the timeless wrong that the villagers sing of along the Abiriba-Nkporo road.
Black Butler of generational curse we brought
Intentionally trying to visit the future vintages.
We are the cause of our own blood spilling through the thin walls of our shadows and spirits.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingfrustrations

i created another Jaja yesterday!
a braver Jaja unlike that timid feeble boy
Chimamanda gave life in Purple hibiscus.
i gave him a gun and a mightier heart.
i carved a pumpkin route for him to follow
i made him to have the mind of his own
then, I sent him to his father just like every
mother sends their sons to their father.
he gunned him down in his assaulted plights
he returned angrily to hunt me for this freedom
my experiments to pull him down failed
and I remembered mother also created boys
she abandoned to find freedom who later
came back to ****** her in their plights
Boys come in this formless shape creating imageries larger than them which returns to
Squeeze more juice out from their dark sides.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration.

I don't know why a story should start with a boy hanging himself cause he was giving freedom to see life & have a kiss with his lips!
Then, the pages moved on and on until their shadows recreated another smothering duplicates of them trying to survive in this forest called life.
I don't know why every morning wakes up to see boys scattered like grains of sand on ground.
I don't know why every chapter of a story would have boys trying to suffocate themselves in the thickest quest to be a man when they can just remain children.
I don't know why each page of the same book will show boys with guns on their left hands & holy books on their rights, killing the dreams of others.
They are portraits in a graveyard called jungle &survival.
Portraits under the palms of the cruel sun
loving miscreants.
They found this soft solace of wildfire splitting between their lives,
Finding a street that will make them scream out loud like a cockerel.
They created themselves in themselves trying to imitate nature in its entirety of manslaughter.
I don't know the genesis of creation, if I could regenerate the genesis of my boys, our boys; I could have ask nature why boys like me suffered in the womb before they were born.
They leant to drive the birds to confusion before
Concluding the squeezeness of pressure
They squeezed dreams into nightmares
Cherish every nostril that flapped wings of lured lost into the cathedral of abyss.
Some boys learn to fall into the shape of their mothers
Some have the fragments of their fathers shadows & images as sharp as the streams of their thoughts.

We opened the jungle gate for them...
Missile becomes toy in the hand
Anger an issue with a patterned crystal lines,
A never ending story of circling class of time.
Employment lost in their favour then politicians came in play converting them to beast of thugs.
They became undertakers of aborted foetus.
Undertakers of dreams among children.
Each story started with their amonition & anger
Firing and slaughtering in the darkness.
These pages made them so cause the story started with their albums of sorrow and agony trying to survive in a particular senero of jungles for boys.



©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingFrustration.