Kongi

kongi_xeroxism

IMAGE: elcarna

In the forest of Olodumare

a rare gem emerged undaunted

The black man and the veil

like those covering a manger

In the absence of stars

there was a dance of the forests

a dance to remember

the burden to memory — the muse of forgiveness

There was a voice in the wilderness

– I mean the forest

A voice that would never be silenced

Thundering in a climate of fear

Like a big plane crashed into the earth

“Ogun Abibiman” his name, clutching

The lips of the interpreters

We must change Madame Etienne’s establishment

in this season of anomy

along with the new imperialism of Africa

Who plays the flute and dictate its tune?

When should I dance to the blue of a prodigal

or are they just the moves of neo-tarzanism?

The road towards a true theatre

has been lost, even before the blackout

in the year sixty-six

Ibadan will never be forgotten

Samarkand and other markets I’ve known

Along with the shuttle in the crypt

until I return to Mandela’s earth fulfilled

The credo of being and nothingness

Yes. The man died — again.

A requiem for a futurologist

The beatification of area boys

have not brought any succor or light

to the swamp dwellers

dwelling in the swamp of black gold

As dark as the heart of the strong breed

like a scourge of hyacinth

The invention of king Baabu

in the market square, a play of the giants,

madmen and specialists alike

BRINGING every inch of my father’s burden

Crude and with a quality of violence

death and the king’s horse manacles

comes bearing the silver goblets

of the bacchae of Euripides

The detainee in his solemn abode

Listened carefully to the art, dialogue and outrage

of those biafr’ing and counter-biafr’ing

Like Egbe’s sworn enemy

A tale of two sides of the same coin

full of myth, literature and the Africa world

Nothing happens until the trial of brother jero

Like cam-woods on the leaves of time

the time burnt properly with toilet paper

And ink of letters always ending — “From lia with love”

I would forge a new name — Ake

even with a lost document of identity

Jero’s metamorphosis, who could predict

Even when clear truth is unknown

In the forest of a thousand demons

YOU must set forth at dawn

like the years of childhood

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