-This is Nigeria,
Where Cattle’s fly their terrorism flag,
Stumping on humtydumpty green white green.
-This is Nigeria
Where corrupt QWERTY and busy ******  
Puts food on the table of unemployed youths.
-This is Nigeria
Where clerics find paradise on earth
Lo!  followers live as church rats withal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Eve plotted against a serpent  
Hm! Mrs Philomena and her fairytale animal.
-This is Nigeria
Where Sundays are full of bibles and Qurans,
Yet her body stinks in poo of immorality.
-This is Nigeria
Where the mace is a mess in her house
As senators sleeps and vacate seats in a hearing.
-This is Nigeria
Where in Nigeria
We are looking for Nigeria.

This day, the grand commander refused the opened door of the corridor that exhumes National odour,
The iconic gallant lamented “good harvest is impossible with rats in the rock’
The Grand commander is right, isn’t he?
Giant rats with two legs and ***** claws caused us wounds yet to close up,
The pig fight they played us in tough dirt
let the Atlantic be a stain remover yet it won’t cleanse us
Let us take the hands of the Clock to dance the moon walk,
You see these rats are black flames in a dark room,
An illumination of appetitive explosion
Oh Clock, the thorns on your feet, can you see?
That the rich green land broke your rich green  blood,
Wait, can’t you smell a dead rat?
The beautiful rat who at a time was the pilot of the crafts
who went so far to bury legality in a pit latrine,
I guess, it smells too nice.
I am sorry oh Clock, I know you hate the moon walk,
I see they make your old wounds open to new grief
Should rats hunt rats for if rats hunt rats then who pants?
Twenty shekels of silver awaits you in twenty’ 20
Take it and let the times get sweaty *****
Oh Clock! Your prophecy talks in time
Should I seek vengeance from the grey sky?
Should the thunderstorm strike and the gullible grey hair die
Rats of bungalow minds in elevated ranks
We trust their word yet they ****** the sword
It is this organizational madness
Let me stop here before the mad dogs bite me

(for chikbok girls four years after elegies of lost)

And we opened the book of remembrance again
Tickling all ears that are designed to be deadly.
We filled the cups & buckets with tears of blood,
****** tears as the cloud rises from dark night
& the horizon of our lives radio out our prayers
in pleasure & pleas recording poetry into broken
Rhythms of the kings bird' songs singing elegies untold. We recoiled this pages of cries into folded arms. Lost is our liberty ephemeral into chaos.
This light of darkness are now printed in our
palms of history tormenting our own feelings.

they left home through the corruption of their father's land. You know, their lies ferried them
into Sambisa to go & tell a tale of their crimes.
the chromosomes of their pigments lacked the bravery within the wrinkled nose of their cheeks.
Lives are buttered fireflies &worms of mediocre...
We may not know how pains taste until untitled chapters of sorrow unfold in our lives to seek revengeful voyage of our sins towards our home.
We televised their lies on the national televisions,
tilted the head of our cocked brain into gadgets
in a ballroom of miscreants clothing our beliefs.

I opened this book of remembrance again,
For my lazy sisters that struggles effortlessly amidst leaves and shrubs of looting leaders.
for their tears composed a musical notes,
for their fight created astraying street steer
I held upto these fallin' memories in a graveyard
into the abstract demon of my noble moralities,
into black races, into an abstract journeys.
brittle of the papers written in absence of our
ourselves, in the pictures of our lost self issues.
we will gather these soothsayers to the cloud
to sooth out those prilgrim girls in the moon.

till then, let this dance be of survival &revival,
of those deaf & dumb girls kept in the ***** of emptiness. they made them voiceless like the pages of a blank books but we know all their magic tricks in the closet of their ignorance.
No chikbok, no Dapchi girls but looting politics,
Politics that has strange mouth & shadows.
Until this madness is cleansed from our souls
Point towards your chambers & crack your mind
We are mocked movies trying to be seen by all,
a documented fairy tale in the heart of all.


©John Chizoba Vincent
FromAPenRefusingfrustration

I roam the streets freely
With no fears or worries

Embracing each day
With nonchalance

Dancing with childish ease
To the buzzing voice
Of the morning traffic

With blank eyes you stare

Masking your bewilderment
Spitting in disgust

As you hurry off
To chase illusions

Whilst I move like the wind
Caring not for attachments
Or never ending pursuit
Of happiness

Romancing the uncertainty
Of unknown tomorrow
Yet you think I am mad

  

YOU THINK I AM MAD


I roam refuses for food
Feasting on your left over  
You think I am mad
With wide eyes you gaze
Upon me with derision
Masking your amusement
Often with a benign smile
Which slowly transcends to pity
The children serenade me
With songs of mockery
Whilst I dance unclad
Happiness I become
But you think I am mad

You dwell in your homes
While I lay in street corners
The night breeze lures me to sleep
We both wake at **** crow
On sunny days, you walk the streets
Clad in choking clothes
Your sunbaked faces
Trying to hide the wetness
Budding underneath your arms
I stand naked in the shade
Dangling my goods
You laugh at me
You think I am the one mad.

Here they come
On their high horses
And white regalia
With the pretense to mourn
Long after we cried and wailed
For the blood that has stained our land
Long after we cried and wailed
For the blood that has stained our land
Drawn by the sword of their brethren
From the veins of our brethren

How deceptive...how audacious?
Their mockery of our pain
They never felt it
They only felt threatened
Because others came to give us succour
They didn’t come with balm for the wounded
And no bandages for the bleeding
They only came to see
How deep the wounds are?Are they deeper than the valley they seek to possess?

How deceptive...how audacious?
Their disdain of our sincere tears
They came with no tears
To shed for the buried dead
Neither did they come with handkerchief
To wipe away our tears
They came to see
If the graves are as they expected
And if not...how well to inflict more wounds
Even as we mourn
They are killing more

How deceptive...how audacious?
Their mockery of our sensitivity
Instead of sending the lion to roar
And chase the wolf away
They sent the cat to run
To where? I don’t know
The cat is been running
Yet the wolf is stilling killing
And the head of the pack
Is coming to see
How red the River Benue is

Edumoga is crying
Guma and Logo is still bleeding
Makurdi has not been spared from the flames
Nigeria is being deprived of herchildren daily
From Maiduguri to Adamawa
From Zamfara to Yobe
From Ekiti to Ogun
The Land is full of graves
From Southern Kaduna to Taraba
From Enugu to Delta
From Nasarawa to Benue
The land is bleeding red
And the stench of death is no longer offensive to perceive

When will this end?
When has the maiming of children?
And slaughtering of the pregnant
Become a culture of pride?
When has it become our culture?To protect the murderer
And accuse the victim?
The eyes that pretends not to see
When the vultures are plucking out its neighbours eyes
Should not forget that when they are done
They will come for his own.

Now what can I do?
I bear no guns
I carry no swords
But I still have my words
I will not cry only with my eyes
But I will cry with my pen
Until I **** this fear
This fear that wants to make me a slave
Until the peace be restored
Through the tears of a pen bearer.

Seb's young fertile face beamed African royalty
even in the penury of this Nigerian refugee camp.
Her mother's downcast eyes shunned the camera's querying lens,
while Seb's, "I-love-you", eyes were welcoming.

Seb's eyes were as blossom-petaled obsidian pools,
each pierced by the light of a distant star.
Her blackness did not succumb to woeful displacement,
but shone with the promise of an overcoming spirit;
for a Mother's prayers were writ in the marrow of her bones.

Born with a tenacity to love,
her young heart leaped out through trusting inquisitive eyes.
Her tongue, budding out of rich dark faced soil, seemed eager
to taste the sweet juices that her spirited-eyes promised;
smiling, "l love you", behind barbed wired love-me-nots.

Seb was a child . . . full of joyful expectations.
A child who did not choose this world;
'tho born of a Spirit conceived to love . . .
to love the . . . hell . . . out from her world.


gv 4.2015  Word Hobo

~~~~~~

(Note: This piece came out of seeing this fascinating photograph
by Sebastian Rich,  of Seb clinging to her Mother in a camp for displaced Nigerians.)

Link to this Photo of Seb and her Mother:

http://www.abc.net.au/news/2016-04-26/infectious-and-innocent-smiles-from-war-zones/7355958

Scroll down to Ninth Photo
Caption  :  A Nigerian child in a UNICEF clinic, who was finally on the road to a full recovery after suffering from severe acute malnutrition. Her unprompted smile filled my lens.


I would encourage all to visit the website of Sebastian Rich.  His heart-gripping photography is incredibly moving and meaningful.

sabastianrichphotography.com.

in this world
the drums of scrap
steps leading
CIA man nodded
neutralize it.

"So we understand yes?"

"Fascinating."

massacre

Understood?
Saddam Hussein
On her next stopover in Basra
black-Nigel, came kissing?