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Homage to the late poet; Kofi Owonor


By
Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya;aopicho@yahoo.com)


In one Sunday Nation article, Professor Ali A Mazrui analyzed the inter-politicality of The Jaramogi Odinga family and The Kennedy family by arriving at a difference that the Odinga’s have curse of long life but the Kennedy’s have a curse of early death through violent and untimely  mode of death .Mazrui made these analogies in reference to violent death of John F. Kennedy and the subsenguent Chappaquiddick bridge tragedy.Similarly,the salient difference between a European and American or a Japanese and African writer or African artist is that most of African writers die early in the mid of their lives through violent death but in contrast American and some European writers die peacefully and comfortably in their old age. Early and violent death is the dominant bane, fate and misfortune that now and then besmirch an African writer. This position is in recognition of a fact that my child-hood American popular literature writers in the name of Mario Puzzo author of the God Father and Robert Ludlum an author of several anti soviet spy series like; Borne dentity, Borne Ultimatum and Icarus Agenda plus very many others like The Matlock Paper had just to die recently in their late eighties. The most surprising of all is Phillip Roth whom I read at the age of twelve years while in my primary four.  Now I am forty years and this year 2013 Phillip Roth is still alive and active to the American literary civilization that he has been touted by the Ladbrokes as a probable candidate for Nobel Prize in literature. But sadly enough on 22 September 2013 in Nairobi the black angel of early  death has carried ahead its  foul duty by claiming the life of Africa’s most honorable literary scholar Professor Kofi Owonor during the helter-skelter of Alshabab terrorist lynch of the upscale West Gate Mall in Nairobi.
Actually this essay is meant to be a deep felt homage to the late Kofi Owonor, Killed by Islamic terrorists in Nairobi. However, the essay also goes ahead to decry the violent and early deaths of several other African writers. The deaths which have almost turned Africa into a literary dwarf if not a continent of artistic bovarism. Kofi Owonor, who peacefully and honorably came to attend Story Moja Literary festival to be held in Nairobi, was violently shot by the Islamic fundamentalist terror group known as Al shabab. Whose gunmen lynched the Mall in which was Kofi Owonor and his son. The terrorist were sending out the Muslim catchword on which if one fails to respond then he was known not to be a non- Muslim on to which he is shot or held hostage for ransom.Fatefull enough, Kofi Owonor was not muslim.He was an elder, an Africanist, a scholar, a poet, a realist, a rationalist, a Christian, a religious non-fundamentalist and a literary liberalist. He could not respond with any tincture of religious irrationalism to the question of the terrorist. He was shot dead and his son injured. Too sad. This is actually the time when Christian positivism goes beyond rigidity of other religious affectations in its classic assertiveness that the devil kills the flesh but not the soul. And indeed it is true the devilish terrorist killed Owonor’s flesh but not his literary soul. They are such and similar situations that made Amilcar Cabral to observe in his Unity and Struggle, in a section on Homage to Kwameh Nkrumah to rationalize that the sky is too enormous to be covered by the palm of a sadist nor to be vilified by the spitting of the filthy ones; Truly, like Nkrumah, Kofi Owonor was the sky of African intellect never to be covered by the brute of the cannon from the parrel of a Muslim terrorist.
Kofi Owonor is not alone neither are we alone. You, my dear reader and I  we are not in any historical nor literary solititude. In Africa God has blessed us with the opportunity of the dead relatives in the name of the living dead. We are not the first and the last to grief. Owonor is not the first and the last to dance with fate. Even Ali A. Mazrui in his literary expositions of 1974 otherwise published as the trial of Christopher Okigbo.A  novella in which Mazrui cursed ideology as an open window into the moving vehicle that let in  a very bad political accident to Nigeria in the name of Biafra war which claimed life of  Christopher Okigbo at the Nzukka battle front. This was one other sad moment at which Africa lost its young literary talent through violent death.
Reading of African literary biographies in all perspectives will not miss to make you attest to this testimony. Both in situ and in diaspora.Admirable African American writers like Malcolm X, and Dr Luther King all died through violent death. Even if in the recent past, the Daughter of Malcolm X revealed to Sahara Reporters, Nigerian Daily, that Louis Farrakhan was behind the assassination of her father, wisdom of the time commands us to know that it was evil politics of that time that made Malcolm X to die the way international politics of today in relation to crookedness which was entertained during the formation of the state of Israel that have made the son of Africa professor Kofi Owonor to die.
An in-depth analysis into the life and times of African writers and artists will show that the number of African cultural masters who die violently is more than the number of those who died normally in their old age. Some bit of listology will show help to adduce the pertinent facts; Patrice Lumumba, Steve Biko, Lucky Dube, Walter Rodney, Tom Mboya, J M Kariuki, Che que Vara, Ken Saro Wiwa, Anjella Chibalonza, and Jacob Luseno all but died through violent death. Lumumba died in a plane crash along with Darg Hammarskjöld only after penning some socialism guidelines. After writing I write what I want, a manifesto for black consciousness Steve Biko was arrested and tortured in the police cells during those days of apartheid in south Africa.Biko died violently while undergoing torture in police cells. Lucky Dube was fatefully shot by a confused ****. Walter Rodney who was persuaded by his student who is now the professor Isa Shivji at Dare salaam University not to go back to his country of Guyana, desisted this voice and went back only to be assassinated in the mid of the rabbles that domineered Guyanese politics those days of 1970’s. This happened when Rodney had written only two major books. How Europe Underdeveloped Africa, being one of them. Tom Mboya was shot by a hired gunman in down-town Nairobi, some one kilometer away from the West Gate Mall, at which Kofi Owonor has been shot. Mboya could have written a lot. Even more than Rudyard Kipling and Quisling. But fate or bad luck had him violently die after he had only written two books; Challenges to Nationhood as well as Freedom and After. Both of them are classically nice reads until today. He had also submitted sessional paper no. 10 to the Kenya government which was a classical thesis on Africanization of scientific socialism.
J M Kariuki, Che and Saro Wiwa are all known for how they violently died. Powers that be and terrorists that be, expedited violent death against these writers. Thus, brothers and sisters in the literary community of Africa and the world as we mourn Kofi Owonor we must also let Africa to unite in spiritual effort to rebuke away the evil spirit that often perpetrate terror of violent death which  especially  claim away lives of African writers.

References
Ali A. Mazrui; Trial of Christopher Okigbo
Amilcar Cabral; Unity and Struggle
By Jennifersoter Ezewi

I heard them call Kofi
When my sugar turned coffee
At the presence of a thing
Called coffin.

I know the living Kofi
Who doesn't come late
But is now late at the
Expense of a call called death.

The peace movement resound Kofi
Who couldn't respond from a coffin
But his legacy resound peace
That could not be bound.

Here is Kofi
Whose presence bespeak peace
But the day announced requiem
As nations sounds plaintive.

Goodbye Kofi,
Africa will always remember
That you united nations
Before your exit.
My tribute to late Kofi Annan. Ex UN Secretary-General. Written and posted on social media on 15th September, 2018
Prabhu Iyer Sep 2013
When our tears are dry on the shore
And the fishermen carry their nets home
And the sea gulls return to bird island
And the laughter of the children recedes
At night
There shall still linger here the communion we
Forged
The feast of oneness which we partook of

There shall still be the eternal gate-men
Who will close the cemetery door
And send the late mourners away
It cannot be music we heard that night
That still lingers in the chambers of memory
It is the new chorus of our forgotten comrades
And the hallelujahs of our second selves
Ghana's most famous poet and a voice of Africa, Awoonor had a tragic death, shot by Islamist terrorists at Nairobi's Westgate Mall on 21-09-2013. This is his famous piece, Redicovery from his first collection of verse, published in 1964.

The poem is remarkable for its lyrical quality and haunting, surreal appeal to our connection with the lost and the dead. This connection with the other-world is something that occurs through Awoonor's work, influenced by the traditions of his native Ewe people.
THIS YEAR 2013; IS THE YEAR OF GREAT DEATHS


Alexander K Opicho
(Eldoret, Kenya; aopicho@yahoo.com)


This year alone world society has lost more that ten great intellectual and political leaders. They have been lost to death in a deeply wounding manner. Human society has indeed been robbed. It is so sad. Three of the leaders have been Nobel laureates and the rest are leaders of intellectual, moral, political and spiritual stature in their respective capacities.
It began without any stampede in early part of the year some where March when Chinua Achebe, a Nigerian and Francis Davis Imbuga a Kenyan, both succumbed to early deaths caused by stroke. Rendering not only the citizens of world of literature, but also African society as well as global intellectual communities to the most desperate bereavement. Thereafter, within short while of the subsequent days, The Venezuelans president and Marxist intellectual, Hugo Chavez also succumbed to death caused by throat cancer. Even though the Pravda, the daily circulating paper of Russia contended that Chavez was poisoned; it is dismissible as only a Russian stand attributed to ideological hangover, because the Pravda also made similar allegations in relation to deaths of Yasser Arafat, Pablo Neruda and Frantz Omar Fanon, but it did not go a head to establish the factuality of this very allegations.
What we know is that human life is in most cases contested for by the three spiritual forces of fortune, fate and death. As decried William Shakespeare in his Romeo and Juliet. This time round in the year 2013, the angel of death has dominantly reigned with its untimely consequences in form of fangled early death of our leaders. Herman Melville will remain classical in his concern in the Moby **** about death that; O death! O death! Why are you untimely?  
Sadder is when the Al shabab terrorists killed the Ghanaian born global literary citizen Kofi Owonor. Kofi Owonor the poet and author of This world my brother was among the people killed in Nairobi during the terrorist attack at the Westgate mall. Of course he had come to Kenya to celebrate in literary festival organised by a society of publishers in Nairobi. This is an eventuality of some month ago. In September 2013, the Irish born literary Nobel prize poet; Heaney Seamus died. He died prematurely when the world society most needed his service to literature and his literary service to human society.
A couple of some weeks ago again the world loosed two prominent artists, political leaders, human rights crusaders and intellectuals. These are none other than Doris May Lessing and Tabuley Rosseuru. Lessing was a white African living in London, literature Nobel laureate and a feminist as well as an anti apartheid crusader. She is known for her firm stand against communist utopia, championing for the  courses against dehumanizing  human behaviors like racisms , but mostly Lessing is known for  her  great literary works like ;the grass is singing, Golden Note book, Dann and Mara as well as so many other works. Whereas Tabuley was an African Congolese , a musician , a businessman , once a husband to Africa’s most beautiful songstress Bellia Belle. He was the composer and the vocalist of African Rumba music. His song Bina Mudan which we in Africa always pronounce as Simbukinya was actually an artistic and cultural bombshell. Tabuley has been a politician, who enjoyed a gubernatorial position of the city of Kinshasa for ten years (two terms).
Most disastrous is the currently trial-some moment for the world community as they all commissarriate the death of Nelson Mandela.Mandella died early decemder 2013 at his home in the Johannesburg city of South Africa. The death of Mandela is an open sore to the society. It is a window for social, political, intellectual and family abyss in Africa. It is indeed a sad moment. But what can we do? For it has already happened. We can only swim in the consolation inherent the wisdom of the Babukusu people found in the western part of Kenya that; Mis-brewed wine behooves volunteer carousers. And truly, I have personally joined the world community to commit a poetical kamikaze in volunteering to drink this sour wine of humanity .May god give us and our leaders in their diverse capacities long live. Amen.
They began without notice, in the city of Mombasa
By the Al shabab shooting baby Osinya in the head,
Killed the mother, leaving a slug stuck in Osinya’s head
Killing and mauling many others macabrously,
Killing for no other reason, but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

They had initially lynched the West Gate Mall
In Nairobi, killing the aged and seasoned darling
Of African poetry and true fountain of peace
The dearest Kofi Awonor, in full watch of his son,
Confirming a trail of the ghastly curse of fate and death
That totted him arduously from his home in the west
Of the tropical gulag that makes the land of Africa
From where the terror maestro ; Boko haram reign scot free
Mayheming, Killing, ******, and kidnapping harmless virgins
Killing For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

They have now killed fifty peasants in Mpeketon town,
****** them in circles to puncture their virginity
and brutally kidnapping those that are not *****,
Using the AK 47 and the Ak 74 to shoot and ****,
Without reason nor course but failure of mind
Botched down by authenticity of holy diversity
Heavenly packaged in God’s idea of tribe,
Uhm! An African man with a gun is a brute of brutes,
Giving an African a gun is simple mess of the world
In to helter-skelter poise tilting peace higgledy-piggledy,
Killing one another like animals premised by Charles Darwin
As overtly seen in the warring Congo and CAR,
Where Africans **** one another in a stupid dint,
To ape Rwanda or no! To outshine the Jewish Massacre
In the Ammonium chambers of fuehrer Adolf ******,
This stupid Africans baser than wild beasts,
Who told you that your greatness will come
from killing your neighbours; the fellow peasants?
These African men are the modern homoguerrillus,
Which one call cheap war making man
They and **** ! ****! ****! ****! ****! ****! ****,
For no other reason but faith and tribe,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.

Gunshots of the gunmen in Africa are not
A song of the caged bird, no whatsoever,
They are cowardly maneuvers of the weak
As the weak and cowards rarely forgive,
They arm themselves to the teeth
With deadly weapons from Russia or wherever
Only to shoot and **** the old and malnourished
Peasant women, killing the likes of baby Osinya
Shooting a suckling baby to prove your heroism,
These African men are really a Whiteman’s burden,
They **** their fellows from cockcrow to chick roost
For no other reason but tribe and faith,
Their victims confess different religion and ethnicity.
Ivan Brooks Sr Aug 2018
Why do you take the great ones?
You come with your death notes
And without any prior warning
You leave scores of people crying
Why leave the ones that are dumb
Why can't we have a referendum?
I don't think it's fair to remain stoic
Maybe you will see truth ,the logic
And the reason to reconsider things.
Nobody likes what your visitation brings
Stop taking the people we love most.
Take a break from job and read this post
Tell me afterward if I'm right or wrong
We are tired swaying to your funeral song.
Today you took the great Kofi Annan
Almost on the same date you took my Nana.
Day before yesterday you took Aretha
Like you took my dearest Aunt Martha.

©IvanBrooksPoetry
We need to talk to death
In the dark we groove for light
Awaiting again the lion's roar
To awaken us from a stupor
A Maniac infuse to our culture
Mislearnig adventures incured by our search
Searching for light with the touch in hand
Searching within the endless tunnels of knowledge
Bellowing our rich forest and mangroves
Bastadizing the deep sea of life bestowment.
True and of a truth...!
Silence is a guide but we lost touch of the hunters skills
Skills that unwind the pantheon, crossed the hyaenea
And put paid to the antics of the Foxes
Our quest is  now an inquests
Following the foxes of  this sphere in a hide and seek dance
A salient dance of alienation between the Hunter and the antelope.
Will the lion ever roar again..?
Chinua Achebe, Kofi Awenora,Senghor, Bongo Mbeti,
Dennis Brutus, Alex La Guma, Anthol Fugar
Nelson Mandela, Cyprain Ekwensi,
Christopher Okigbo and now Gabriel Okara
....And other great lions
Living and dead whose roaring sounds
Cascades our spheres and beyond.
The great lioness;
Bessie Head,  Nardi Gordimar,Mariana Ba,
Mabel Segun, Amata Aido,, Doris Lessing
Helen Oviagere, Buchi Emecheta.....!
Your breast has not dried up yet
And your ******* still drips with milk of knowledge
Only we lack sulking skills to quesh the hunger and thirst
We cry for trivialities searching for food outside our barns and homesteads
We long and thirst for great sayings with Witt
Idioms with Music accomplishments to rummage deep into our marrow
Pickerng into our very being .....Healing!
We long for the roaring Lions
Seeking sounds to penetrate deep into our  persons
We long for true words and essences
Piercing through  the very depths of our soul

Written by
Otuogbodor Okeibunor  Abuja, Nigeria
— The End —
Classy J Nov 2019
I put the sharpen on em,
I hear the choppers coming,
Can’t eraser the past,
Everyone think I’m high off something. (X2)

Catch a vibe, I’m bumping.
Match with left swipe, I’m thirsty!
Oil up the pipe, I’m gushing.
My girl play my trumpet as good as Cindy Bradly.
So you bet imma be going down her pipe, like I’m jump man!
(Mario sound effects)
Popping the cherry off,
Got her yelling mozel tov!
Bringing down her walls, like I’m Gorbachev.
Sensual tingling heat, blasting out like a Molotov.
Fronting like a boss, spending cash mischievously!
Disrupting the masses, by saving music
Obviously.
And a lot be hating, but they just mad that they can’t understand me.
Because my lyrics go over their heads g.
So, I wont apologize for spreading the truth homie!
And I may never win a Grammy,
But I don’t need trophies to prove I’m the greatest g!
For my lyrics be piercing,
Are you listening?
Or do I need to put the sharpen on ya?

I put the sharpen on em,
I hear the choppers coming,
Can’t eraser the past,
Everyone think I’m high off something. (X2)

Catch a vibe, ya tripping!
I’m not in my right mind, I’m slipping.
Pull out the lean, I’m sipping!
Oh, lord please have mercy.
My vision getting blurry.
And If it ever comes back, find out where’s Perry?
I’m immediately regretting this decision, like I’m Ron Burgundy.
Can’t **** my struggles away like Timmy’s fairies.
If only real life could let up,
When I scream parley.
Who knew pirates had better morality than society eh?
Can’t it see I’m just living on a prayer like I’m Bon Jovi?
And just when life starts giving me a push, I get robbed like Kofi.
It only takes 5 seconds for things to go Nagasaki.
If only things could roll off me like I’m Rolie polie Olie.
If only I could hit three pointers as good as Steph curry.
Or be as funny as Bill Murray.
But as long as you fans still support me,
That enough for me.
And if you hate me, I might have to put the sharpen on thee.

I put the sharpen on em,
I hear the choppers coming,
Can’t eraser the past,
Everyone think I’m high off something. (X2)
Anthony Paul Apr 2018
“In their greatest hour of need, the world failed the people of Rwanda.”
- Kofi Annan

I have never desired to step  inside  
a mass grave, but the  white marble top  
covering  a  piece  of  the ground like
a  band-aid  on  a     wound    silently
invites me in with an open  staircase.  
The    closer    I    move     toward the
entrance, the more  I am reminded of
hate. The  hate lingers on the  ground
around the grave, humming  a  ballad  
reserved  for  attempted  extinction.  
Machetes,  guns,  and  a­xes  were the  
instruments   in   the    orchestra  that
played the tune of death on this piece
of land.  The screams   of children,    
gunshots      piercing      flesh,    ­bone
breaking    under   blunt force. I enter  
the grave not  knowing what  to  feel.    
My  heart  beats      consciously as  
I control the  flow  of air   in  and  
out of my body,      trying to play    life’s
song   amid the   loud lingering  hum 
 of    hate   that  has   seeped from  the 
 ground above.  The  light   that enters
does   not     brighten    my   feelings;   
 it     only    reveals   the  moments  of
death on the walls which  are shelved
with  skulls,  some with bullet  holes,  
some   with fractures from machetes. 
I    move  through the   thin   corridor    
fearful     of    making   eye    contact 
with the    skulls     for  I do not want to    
stare    into    the     empty     eye  sockets  
to see     individual     death.   Femurs  and  
humeri    lay like  *****  clothes    thrown
into the  corner of a room.  No longer do
they represent one  human. Outside the
light  warms   my   skin   and   directs     my    heart    to    beat  unconsciously,  
my   breath   to   rise  and  fall   in unison
with  my steps. It   shines  upon   a   new  
tune   being     played.   Children  laughing,  
mothers yelling,  hymns being  sung. It  
spotlights   a  beauty of humanity:
Reconciliation.
Spacing a little different than original.
Saturday, March 14th and the time is precisely 10:30am.

      I'm an introvert but not really by choice. In most scenarios I just always had to learn to manage on my own and solitary became an addiction. Most of my Saturdays consisted of getting high and playing MKX and Call of Duty on my Playstation 4. Yeah, my life is
as interesting as watching wet paint dry.

     That Saturday was different. I walked about the mall with my best-friend Vad, who I hadn't
seen for ...two weeks maybe? Vad and I met in kindergarten but later reconnected in Jr. school. Him, Kofi, Adrian, and J were the most friends I had and even so, it was a rare occasion I got out the house to hang out. I hated parties but loved music; small events were definitely my thing.

    Vad's mom gave us the car for the day and we made our venture to the mall. The car ride to the mall consisted of us sharing what we've been doing during the time we haven't seen each other. Vad was doing pretty good; he had a new polo outfit complimented with a gold Rolex all from saved up money from working with his dad. I didn't really have much to say."I master prestiged in Ghosts." were all I had to offer. It caused a huge laughter between the both of us but a sense of seriousness was in the air. After the laughter he said he knows what I'm doing and I dapped him. Not much people were good at deciphering my crazy maze-like plans.

   I had already made two stops; the food court and FinishLine. Spinster, a music store, was my final destination. I'd been going to Spinster for about three years but this was my first time in I'd say three months. During my first two stops in the mall, Vad was MIA. Luckily, on my way to Spinster I spotted him at the Ralph Lauren store, "Of course that's where he'd be." I chuckled to myself under my breath as I watched him strain his scrawny arm.

  I browsed the rock section, only to be disappointed at BMTH's classic Sempiternal album not being there.
I had already bought the album but I wanted the actual vinyl to play when I got home.
"****!", I said impulsively.
I felt a million eyes land on me and that's when I realized Vad was missing again.
I scanned the room, spotting him at the counter. He was talking to the new countergirl  girl. She was light skinned with blonde hair, obviously dyed. Her cheeks were fat and covered in freckles or acne, I don't know. Light bulbs were highly inferior to her smile and then she caught me. She caught me! I started off looking for Vad and ended up scrutinizing this girl's existence! It was an awkward feeling and I quickly brushed it off and broke awkward eye contact. I couldn't find Sempiternal but I found SGT. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band by The Beatles. I carefully glanced at Vad, being sure not to even look at the counter girl. He signaled me to come over and I did, passing  countergirl the vinyl.
"Yo, this is my bestfriend Trá. Trá, this is-"

"She has a name tag bro", I said while quickly glancing at the tag reading,"Ana".

"So...The Beatles? They're music is nice.", she slipped in. I know they say you shouldn't judge a book by its cover but looking at countergirl, I mean Ana - I'd never think she listens to the Beatles. Something about her screams mainstream. Ironically, she could use the same saying for me with my hipster appearance.

"Yeah, they're my third favorite band what's your favorite song?" I asked, only testing her.
She smiled and said it feels like I'm testing her so I gave a quick glare, realizing how transparent my test was.

"Lucy in the Sky With Diamonds", she said as she passed me my vinyl and change. I chuckled and smirked because I watched her eyes scrutinizing the back of the vinyl. As I took my things, my eyes met with Ana once again and for a second, Vad wasn't near us but my thoughts aren't reality and he was still there, handsome and tall and captivating the eyes of Ana as my eyes scanned her aesthetic aspects. I stood there with a facade, smiling as Vad and Ana shared smiles. A sense of jealousy took over my emotions but I quickly suppressed it with memories from my past relationshit. Countergirl swiftly went from a goddess who's feet I'd kiss to just being countergirl.

Interrupting their conversation ever so politely, "It was nice meeting you Ana" is what I said as I made my way out the store motioning to Vad to let's leave.
Ryan O'Leary Aug 2018
Kofi un âne
died and went
to meet St Peter
who told him go
down to the back
of Heaven where
Jacqueline Kennedy
had her Own *****.
A mixed language poem
with a hint of Catholicism
and a touch of Irish humour.
Ryan O'Leary Oct 2018
Outside of the Golden Gates
someone left a basket with
a tea towel and a note in
American English which
read, " For Pete's Snakes ".

Before anybody was allowed
to open it, God, who was down
the back of Heaven, had to be
consulted, in case it might be
***** trapped.

Jesus! he exclaimed, to all
their amazements, especially
Mother Theresa, who was the
one that noticed it, on her way
back from a dance in Limbo

She said it might be a present
from Kofi An An who, according
to the new arrivals list, was still
in Purgatory waiting for a transfer
when a space became available.

Little is said of it on earth, but
not everyone who makes it past
the Golden Gates are guaranteed
to be left there, the yellow and red
card system applies there now also.

— The End —