SALUTE TO A MASTER

(for Obiora Udechukwu)

You who with paint and palette
sings us a new song of hope, cooks up  a feast of dreams
For hunger-ravaged eyes.
Today I read your writing,
studied again your drawing
And leapt
In joyful hope.


O GA-ADI MMA: the hope that sustains

When our barns gape yamless
and our soup pots dry up
When hunger like a roaring lion devours our entrails
And sadness like an invading army overruns our hearts
O ga adi mma we mutter
And the hope that sustains
Fills our bellies to tautness
And our hearts with joy.

When the heavens withold their watery blessings
And our yam mounds stand parched
When the ghouls of famine hover over
And starvation a sentry, grins at our door
O ga adi mma we mumble
And the hope that sustains
waters our crops, disperses the denizens of death.

In these days when madness is abroad
and chaos and confusion roam unchecked
Through our land
In these times when our rulers dance
To the drums of destruction
Trampling afoot our dreams, our hopes
Tearing apart the threads that unite us
O ga adi mma! the roar bursts forth
No longer pleading but demanding
That tomorrow dawn brighter
Than this torrid day

DYING WISH

Sprinkle my ashes upon the waters
That borne on the waves I may reach
Lands unknown and men unloved
specks of me bearing, a song of hope
'Do not despair, this life can be lived'
In death fulfilling, a vow in life made
To touch the lives of many
and lighten the loads of some.
so scatter the ashes and scattering pray
That in dying I find
The peace I lost in life.

AND YET IT PERSISTS

I have buried my ghosts
A heavy silence enfolds me
I have put aside the pain
The misery of recalled treachery
I have danced to the drums of atonement
And sipped of the wine of forgiveness
These I have done and yet
I fail to find that which I seek
These I have done and yet
A lasting peace eludes me.
I have buried my ghosts
But my haunting persists.

ASABA

(In memory of her massacred sons, and for Aunt Nkadi)

Perched on the edge, on the banks of the Niger
Sleepy, serene, lapped by its waters
Your calmness belying the hurt within
The pin of your sons' blood spilt in vain.
Not for you, wild wailing for your lost children
Not for you empty promises of future vengeance.
Stoic you sit on the great river's banks
This life is a deep thing
The river flows on
Ponder no more, some day your lost sons
shall return to you
Mourning maiden mother by the waters.

OLD ROADS