The Tragedy of Man
 
 
Conceived in darkness
Mother lying on tattered mats
With father sweating it out in between her thighs
In a hut where the room floods,
When the heaven weeps.
My lot was cast,
Among the neglected and impoverished lot,
Where abject poverty, is the garb of humans. 
 
           Mucus rains from the nostrils of children,
           Protruding belly fed fat with hunger,
           Flies competing violently
           To lick the mucus from the nostrils
           Women with bodies decorated with veins,
           Have their fingers worn rough from
           Scratching arid lands hard as stone for food
           And with half-fed stomachs, sleep weary each night
 
           But hungry though and deprived,
           When the moon casts its beam,
           On our impoverished village,
           Children dance in frenzy shouting ‘Onwa apuo!’
           While the old sit together in harmony drinking gin.
           And laughing off all the worries in the world.
           At bedtime although sleeping on tattered mats,
           They snore in freedom unwary of robbers.
 
As a juvenile soon weary of the life,
Which the drudgery of poverty promises.
The glow of the metallic city with streetlights and tarred roads,
Becomes my desire. Sitting in posh cars and apartments,
With pockets full of the meal ticket become my dream.
Dreams! Dreams!! I chase them committed
Out to end my life of drudgery with a deft stroke.
Adieu to peace of mind if that is what it means.
 
To attain fame and fortune, I played foul.
Brothers are remorselessly duped and robbed.
Evil became my garb and vehicle to fortune
Dedicated to the struggle, I got what I sought too soon.
Metallic city, a garland of roses for you!
Wash me clean of the mud of poverty,
And on my cracked, dehydrated skin,
Carefully rub Claire to freshen!
 
Yet in my gargantuan house, sleep flies from my eyes.
Armed robbers find in me a bank to rob,
While brothers angered at my duplicity,
In vengeance hire assassins to cut me down.
The gardens harbouring manicured flowers,
In irony portend danger to me,
As assassins could lurk in them and get me killed.
Ah! The lost freedom of my impoverished village!
 
Oh seer, unknot the knotted ropes of my life,
And tell me, what it is that I really want?
What do I desire; what does man desire?
Is it peace of mind and closeness with nature?
Or a very firm grasp on mammon
Although the worship of him deprives us of peace?
The voice comes swiftly not waiting,
The answer, ready to give:
 
Not content with what he has,
Is the tragedy of man.

*Otiin Growing in the Desert
 
Like a cricket’s sole shrill
Breaking the night’s tranquility,
The alarm shrilled, piercing the night’s stillness
And my soul’s sojourn,
With flippant minstrels of the dream world,
Snapped in violence, teeth knocking together from cold.
Struggle! Struggle! Eyes appoloic red with
Poring relentlessly over voluminous books:
 
In dilapidated classrooms,
With scarce chairs and floors with broken tiles.
Windowpanes lost to vandals and burglary proofs nonexistent
Naked wires protruding from,
Where before, sockets stayed.
Ceilings caving into classrooms cage-like,
I sit with stomach half-fed and
Brain sharpened by desire and dulled by hunger.
 
The teacher unpaid yet dedicated,
To the extent which his worries will let him,
With Libraries and research facilities nonexistent
He throws open his unrefillable well of knowledge
And from it I painfully draw,
Empowered by eagerness, hindered by deficiencies
I held on desirous to grow from nothing to something
Constantly kayoed by adversity, begging for help.
 
I struggle alone,
No love, no rest
Dumped amidst thorns,
Reaching to the sun almost impossible
Stuck in this gloom that
Choke yet turn me out
Under extremely difficult conditions.
Half-cooked despite all my struggles.
 
And like Otiin
Growing in the desert,
I come out with pale leaves.

*Scent leaf. A very precious plant among the Obuohians