THERE IS RAIN ON MY WINDOWPANE
Brother, if one day you find
That the man next to you no longer fits
The room he once snugly fills;
It is not because he has grown too big
For size; the reason is:
They have sown rage in your stomach.
A thousand storms are brewing in your blood.
It tears the seams of your veins.
There is rain on my window pane–
A thousand rivulets crisscrossing,
Charging homewards from the storms.
It rains outside but the mist gets through.
I draw a map with my finger on the other side
It is the shape of Nigeria or Biafra (I know not which).
There is a storm in my teacup–
I can only take a sip before tornadoes rage in my blood;
A raging feast of wrath– I can’t but go down and partake
In this debauchery of seething violence.
There is a war in my head–
A gauntlet of disdain served at my doorstep.
I cannot respond nor let go.
But who would fight to return the souls of lost men
If we unleash the beasts within?
The only noble war is fought within the souls of the lost.
I can let the beasts out or fight
To hold them bound forever.
Come let us mingle blood and sand
And make paste of the gore
To brand a crescent on your forehead;
Unction on your way to paradise.
Through the veil in your eyes you see
Your brothers as passages to
The abode of voluptuous virgins.
You strap yourself in the death-vest.
I have seen
The trail of blood you left behind.
I have heard
The cacophony of cries and wails that
Sing you on your path to pleasure-abode.
Lift the veil from your eyes! Lift the veil,
And see the fires eating your brothers;
Turning your homeland into grave yard
With bones for head stones
And blood written epitaphs.
It may be too late before you realize
What paradise awaits you.
Not of nubile maidens calling,
But of mangled bodies
You have blown to pieces.
You will be called to answer for them.
Poems: Emuobome Jemikalajah