The sound of rain falling when I’m in bed with a lover,
the breath stuck with me till expiry date.
The hands of a potter beating drums in my chest,
The physics of walking on two feet
stretched by a femur that houses weight.
The ray of the sun burning sins in hell
The existence of a Garden that was home before,
The nostalgic breeze of heaven
The questions of survival
The answers of a Hannah.
One orderly orchestra opened overnight.
Two timing tits treated those thirsty thugs
Three terrible teachers tore through the tiny teenager
Four food fighters freed fishes from following friends.
Five funny fingers flung freedom fist
Six shivering shots surely shook some sisters
Seven sickened sisters slowly slumped
Won’t you come in to blow my little heart?
Because you are not in the sound of love.
You are neither down, nor are you above.
Sing of the soldiers dead
Sing for that hanging head.
Sing into the abyss of those gone
What has been fed still lies ahead
To those ones on the cliff edge,
forget your soul, hold the wind.
Try everything, try to float.
Don’t make a boat from a tree,
A ladder may be useful.
Think when putting on fire,
Cause it may never go off.
If today becomes your day
And the sun opens her legs.
Don’t forget the umbrella,
It can be used for the rain
It can shield those bad curses,
Those ones that fall like hailstones.
Today may be yesterday.
You lord of wits
Who has the air, water and moon?
You lord of wits
I was borne to hear you too soon.
Taking my roles and my short skits,
First you came as a child by noon
then as monsters in a cartoon
You lord of wits.
taking the shape of status.
Becoming the untold god
found in age
To Dead Presidents whose legacies are in death palaces,
I greet thee and thy will that made you gods.
We have lived as you rightly would
with tightened feet laced to this ground.
Conspiracy grows from your graves,
some say its a halo over your headstones
we have forgotten all about your deaths
and now, we have wielded stone heads,
we have begged with tied tongues
for our rusted-heavy lies coated with history.
Promises and truth have outlived the fire from our hearts.
To you o dead presidents
I know not where to knot my words from.
To Dead Presidents whose pages are 6-footed stories,
I write to tell you how freedom is the new chain.
I understand your cause only if you lived to tell me,
I know not what wombs these heads came from,
their grounds are corrupt as the internet
yams germinate after a day from its inner net,
the air is a fouled scent of peace
that waves around bodies resting in pieces.
To you o Dead Presidents like Fela, Malcom, Queen Amina, Mandela, Marcus Garvey, Huey Newton and Da Vinci,
my words are scored from a tiny little dust of nothing.
Time can be buried,
In the wrinkles of my mother.
There are days when I hid it in her smile
it radiated the shawl of her sun,
and covered my pain as ash.
I can remember how her hug was a medallion
wielded with honesty, trust and her wits.
I hate trespassers,
those with small foot but big footprints.
They peek as if they will just pass
but then, their foul wind stays behind.
They have a gait of the sun,
they possess the name made by tears
so no rain can wash them away.
I hate trespassers with hair like the night,
each strand is an alarming stroke of pain.
Their skin glows like an Arabian mat holding gold,
when they speak, their words become stars
and knit itself to your mind.
they can enroll your heart to dance to their rhythm,
as you flutter with smile in their rainless clouds.
Oh how I don’t like the way your eyesight finds me.
Here’s how to become a moon;
First fetch the color of the sun
peel it by it’s first skin from within,
hold the oceans by your right arm
and swear by what lives within it.
Pick on where you eyes will look,
Northern light heralds ceremonies.
Southern ears hears the language spoken by gods,
Western waters wave with women within mortal wars.
Eastern festivals depend on your back.
You take on your full body with the sleep of the great bright snail.