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

From America I have gone home to Africa
I jumped the Atlantic Ocean in one single African hop and skip
Then I landed to Senegal at a point of no return
Where the slaves could not return home once stepped there
Me I have stepped there from a long journey traversing the
World in search of dystopia that mirror man and his folly
Wondrous dystopia that mirror woman and her vices
I passed the point of no return into Senegal, Nocturnes
Which we call in English parlance crepuscular voyages
I met Leopold Sedar Senghor singing nocturnes
He warned me from temerarious reading of Marxism
I said thank you to him for his concern
I asked him of where I could get Marriama Ba
And her pipe ******* Brother Sembene Ousmane
He declined to answer me; he said he is not a brother’s keeper
I got flummoxed so much as in my heart
I terribly wanted to meet Marriama Ba
For she had promised to chant a scarlet song for me
A song which I would cherish its attack
On the cacotopia of an African women in Islam,
And also Sembene Ousmane
I wanted also to smoke his pipe; as I yearn for nicotinic utopia
As we could heartily talk the extreme happiness
Of unionized railway workers in bits of wood
That makes the torso of gods in Xala, Cedo
As the African hunter from the Babukusu Clan of bawambwa
In the land of Senegal could struggle to **** a mangy dog for us.

Any way; gods forgive the poet Sedar Senghor
I crossed in to Nigeria to the city of Lagos
I saw a tall man with white hair and white beards,
I was told Alfred Nobel Gave him an award
For keeping his beards and hairs white,
I was told he was a Nigerian god of Yoruba poetry
He kept on singing from street to street that;
A good name is better tyranny of snobbish taste
The man died, season of anomie, you must be forth by dawn !
I feared to talk to him for he violently looked,
But instead I confined myself to my thespic girlfriend
From Anambra state in northwestern Nigeria
She was a graduate student of University of Nsukka
Her name is Oge Ogoye, she is beautiful and ****
Charming and warm; beauteous individuality
Her beauty campaigns successfully to the palace of men
Without an orator in the bandwagon; O! Sweet Ogoye!
She took me to Port Harcourt the capital city of Biafra
When it was a country; a communist state,
I met Christopher Ogkibo and Chinua Achebe
Both carrying the machines guns
Fighting a secessionist war of Biafra
That wanted to give the socialist tribe of Igbos
A full independent state alongside federal republic of Nigeria
Christopher Ogkibo gave me the gun
That I help him to fight the tribal war
I told him no, I am a poet first then an African
And my tribe comes last
I can not take the gun
To fight a tribal war; tribal cleansing? No way!
Achebe got annoyed with me
In a feat of jealousy ire
He pulled out two books of poetry from his hat;
Be aware soul brother and Girls at a war
He recited to us the poems from each book
The poems that echoed Igbo messages of dystopia
I and Oge Ogoye in an askance
We looked and mused.

I kissed Ogoye and told her bye bye!
I began running to Kenya for the evening had fallen
And from the hills of Biafra I could see my mother’s kitchen
My mother coming in and going out of it
The smoke coming out through the ruffian thatches
Sign of my mother cooking the seasoned hoof of a cow
And sorghum ugali cured by cassava,
I ran faster and faster passing by Uganda
Lest my elder brother may finish Ugali for me
I suddenly pumped in to two men
Running opposite my direction
They were also running to their homes in Uganda
Taban Lo Liyong and Okot p’Bitek
Taban wielding his book of poetry;
Another ****** Dead
While Okot was running with Song of Lawino
In his left hand
They were running away from the University
The University of Nairobi; Chris Wanjala was chasing them
He was wielding a Maasai truncheon in his hand
With an aim of hitting Taban Reneket Lo Liyong
Because him Taban and Okot p’ Bitek
Had refused to stand on the points of literature
But instead they were eating a lot of Ugali
At university of Nairobi, denying Wanjala
An opportunity to get satisfied, he was starving
Wanjala was swearing to himself as he chased them
That he must chase them up to Uganda
In the land where they were born
So that he can get intellectual leeway
To breed his poetic utopia as he nurses tribal cacotopia
To achieve east African thespic utopia
In the literary desert.

Thank you for your audience!

I dared to start a race,
A race to reach out a novelty Hut
That chatoyantly beamed in the distance.
Of gold were the thatches of the Hut,
Her pair of windows an emerald surface,
And of ivory the floor of the Hut,
A Hut that even a Seraph would fancy;
Ecstatic, I gravitated thus to the Hut,
Hastily than rain in a helter skelter dash
To kiss the earth, so dashed I to the Hut.
But, the nearer I drew, infinite the space,
The space betwixt I and my dream Hut.
Somehow along the way I thus lost pace,
Though yonder I kept trudging to the Hut,
Vying with reality for a happenstance
To ever dwell in such an ineffable Hut.
Soon, I realized there could be no chance,
For the nearer I drew, further the Hut.
Beneath tides of despair I regretted thus,
Regretted the moment I dared to start,
Starting such a game trickier than Chase,
A race to reach out thy Heart.**


©Kikodinho Edward Alexandros
Jumeira, Dubai
June 13th 2017

Storm clouds gather on Surrey hilltops
Shadowing the thatches along the street
He hurries his pace over the cobbles
To where she waiting on a pinewood seat
~
She touched his cheek with shy affection
Love lines traced with finger tips
Lifting her face for his attention
Tasting heaven on eager lips
~
He took her in his arms once more
Kissed her once- then twice
With arms embracing, hearts a’ racing
Touching the tip of paradise
~
Drum roll thunder split asunder
Skies torn with lightening chains
Nature blessed, then caressed
Their love with April rain