I dreamt that we had church in a place so bright like it was in heaven
The large site had gay decorations and teemed with a cheery gathering
Mum led a choir dressed as white-winged angels
Which sang of a great joy born to the whole earth
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Let the square roar exultantly
Let taut drum-skins boom flatteringly
And skilled dancers throw themselves like dust in the air;
Let’s lift our voices in high spirits, in the manner
Worthy of receiving our warriors when they return victoriously.
Let mothers now take the floor
let them mount on our admiration with their accustomed grace
Let them ride with the poise of veteran warriors
Because they took on evil at the gates
And licked our enemies before they could learn our secrets
Let them pride! let them make ako!
[Culled from an ongoing work: Justice is not man-made]
How do you judge the betrayal of a body that not only survived the assault but prospered the seed of rape? Or what kind of redemption is in the healthy birth of such a child that reminds the mother of being ravaged by a beast? Apparently to my frail mind, such redemption may be as evasive as justice is elusive.
Dazzling in their mystic garbs
Apostles of a late testament
They shield their faces inside a veil
And bear an emblem of a serpent, leprosy and blood -
All three signs of Moses.
These prophets carry strange fire on their heads
Noisy blinding firecrackers, unarmed,
All I make of them is a big suit full of hot air
Beclouding others with the pomp by which they discharge flatus
I remember that night
We took a leisurely walk around the estate,
The dim street lights and soft shadows
Crafted by effect, a flirty twilight.
Occasionally, I took your hand,
Swinging to the gentle harmony of our mood…
In the park, while we rested on a concrete slab
Close by a fruit tree
Surrounded by stout flowery shrubs,
Do you remember the bliss of that night?
Beautiful, enchanted by the mild harmattan breeze
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