"I ran for city council elections in Belgium in Oct. 2000. I was the only African to run in my city. I did not get a chair but I got more votes than our family doctor!" Chika 'Nina' Unigwe was a high school student when her poem was selected for publication in the epochal Voices From The Fringe edited by Dr. Harry Garuba. The author of Teardrops, a collection of poems, Chika who holds a BA from the University of Nigeria, Nsukka, had her Post Grad. studies at KU Leuven and UC Louvain in Belgium. She is currently working on her PhD program and has had articles and poems published in newspapers and journals. Her short story, Touched by an Angel, was broadcast on the BBC World Service. Chika lives in Spokane, Washington. “If you listen really hard
You will hear the trilling of my voice
As it calls your name..."
Cele Uwa
When the news came from home
Spirited by the waves
That you had gone
I snapped my fingers beside my ears
To still the steps of fate
I weave a basket of words
To accompany you on your journey
If you listen really hard
You will hear the trilling of my voice
As it calls your name
And reminds you of what you were
What you are
I garner a harvest of euphonies
To lament my loss of you
Seattle, Ash Wednesday
Bricks and mortar
Cracking
Buildings sway
Dance to an unheard tune
Chairs accomplished
Waltz across floors
“May I have this dance, Miss?”
Running feet
Racing hearts
Praying for an end
To this quaking of the earth.
Before my stomach
Became a moon
Bulging and full
You promised me the earth and all in it
You swore to pluck the very heavens for me
And lay it under my head
A pillow of wealth
Now
You throw words at me
Plastering them on my cheeks
With a viciousness
Like a mason at work
With an unruly tool
Before I was
Your unrivalled goddess
Now I am
Your unbridled dog
Musings
If we do not fox trot to this tune alien to us
Would we be allowed into the inner sanctuary?
If we do not kow-tow to the deities they serve
Would we be allowed to enter paradise?
If we do not claim that the Chief’s clothes are elegant
Would we be allowed to see?
If we do not savour their words like they were fresh palm-wine
Would we be allowed to taste?
If we do not say that we believe them
Would we be allowed to live?
It’s a plain enough window
Nothing fancy
No trimmings to it at all
An old common window
Just like an old common woman
I am often told
But my mother is not common
Nor was her mother before her
Or the mother before that mother
Strong women all
Who raised children
Like they knitted booties
Tight and well
Nothing common at all in that!
A Plea
Will you let me whisper
In your ears
The secret of a thousand years
Which now come bobbing up
To my chest
Pleading with an earnestness
To be released
Gurgled out a throat
Dry
Cackling like a bush fire left untamed
Spreading its wildness beyond any borders known to man
Will you let me hold
Your hands
As we walk through this maze
So puzzling I am yet to make head
Or tail of it
Will you let me love
You like
Only I know how to
A battle
Mutiny
Every night at bedtime
You fight me with the strength of a small army
Resisting my commands
Thwarting my order
Taunting me
Daring me to do my worst
Lock you in
Shield the moon from sneaking in
Take away your little friends, comfort in the dark
Until slowly your eyes shut
And you become transformed again
Into my little angels