God Punish You, Lord Lugard

The traffic warden's white-and-yellow sleeve

stopped our transport, a Lagos mini-bus

bought from one of the rust heaps of Europe ?

part of the great scheme to gain reprieve

for the city's long-suffering commuters.

A horde of beggars swarmed the bus; he beat

all to the vantage position in front

of the open door. He had good manners,

and what he lacked, such as the Queen's english,

he faced with uncommon calm and courage;

blind and battered, with a withered left arm,

not for him the plain and unlearned

"Help me for chop, I beg. God go bless you."

Some flourish, or polish, he thought

would persuade far more than suffering?s worst gown.

And so he: "Good day, brodas and sistas.

Half massy on me, please half sampaty.

Allah's piss  for you." In the bus now, silence

and private wars between purse and charity.

"Half ya broda, half sampaty on  me."

The conductor, scorning all etiquette

laughed loud, pitying country, not beggar

and swore: "God punish you, Lord Lugard,

na you bring this english come Nigeria!"

The white-and-yellow arm beckoned the bus,

a wild fury of horns startled it past

ferrying us beyond claims of charity

and of Lugard's shadow in the black smoke.

Ogaga Ifowodo

3 May 1997

The Day Too Bright

(A Ruler Sings To Himself)

The day too bright for my bloodshot eyes,

I crave the eternity of night.

All is well then, truest sound my lies.

The sun steals the shine from my shoulders,

dims my swords and stars to a dead light.

All is gloom then, when the sun smoulders.

Holding loaded guns and shooting blind,

dead to death, I see the victims' fright.

All is right then, taking all I find.

Oh such power as I felt that July,

took flaming Lagos, tanks won the fight.

All dressed the throne, blood hurled up the sky.

If any knows it's me: night is best

for treason's conclaves on duels of might.

All coups were blessed, darkest deeds the test.

They seize the light of day to gather

and rail against darkness and their plight.

All must rue the day, bow to power.

I can't tell the country on a map,

must be where it bleeds to match my sight?

All chained to the rock, trails to the trap.

The rock! Ibrahim feared an angry day,

built bunkers, a fortress in granite.

All cold as stone, frozen for the stay.

But the sun is stubborn, so am I.

To deny blood, I won't wash it white -

sunglasses on, I can brave the sky.

Ogaga Ifowodo

1 September 1996