I’ll love a dance with you Under the moon, With your scarlet lips on mine, Your caress Slithering its tentacles on my body, And your waist swaying on my reverbs. I’ll love a dance with you Under the embers of the February’s moon. You, yes you, my bride and pride, Your dance, your waist beads, my joy.
Meat and fish, gizzard and croaker, All rolled into one steaming hot and large bowl of hunger as harsh as the sun in Sokoto, And lack that grips us as firmly as a vice as we sing in fuzzy voices: what shall we eat?
Rice and beans, egusi and fufu, We hope for some but are fed full of empty promises and malnourished dreams; We ask only that we be allowed a chance to live, But for that to happen: what shall we eat?
Bread and tea, yam and oil, The stomach wants what it wants, But breadwinners have won nothing for the past eleven months and counting. How we do we survive? What shall we eat?
Indomie and egg, macaroni and cheese, The prices of foodstuff are higher than Everest. Not that it helps but the biting reality of our crippled economy has forced us to slim-fit our stomachs. Yet the question still persists: what shall we eat? Salad and baked beans, pizza and chicken sauce, These are just fancy dreams, top-shelf ambitions. It is not good to give the children’s food to the dogs, But what happens when even the children have no food? Again we ask: what shall we eat?
Garri and groundnut, plantain and pepper stew, The cries of their fat belies in utter delight, Suffused with all manner of delicacies while we roll from one end of our mats to the other assailed by pangs of hunger. To these ones we ask: what shall we eat?
Eat to live or live to eat, It hardly makes a difference at this point, as we cringe at the belching of our bellies filled with hot air, And the sinking of our spirits in utter despair. We keep asking with no answer in view: what shall we eat?
It is beyond reprehensible that the supposed government of the people, by the people, for the people, has succeeded so spectacularly in failing us again and again. They enjoy three square meals a day; we can’t even get a square meal in three days. In our own father’s land: what shall we eat?
I dug till I met the crust of your smile And realized it wasn’t mine. You should have told me ‘Cos I’ve fallen so much that I can’t find my way home. Hey, you should have told me.
“I wish I could show you the way out, But I love you so much that My heart’s jungle wants you lost in it. Yes, the love you saw behind my smile wasn’t yours. I can’t hide that truth. I’ve been lingering around Believing he will return as promised, But he sent a matrimonial missive a year ago. I didn’t know how to recover Until you irrigated my tattered soil With the rains of your love. I’m forever yours.”
Without the sirens, Our fathers heard the marriage bells. Dear wind, Please ferry this plaint to The sons and daughters Whose umbilical cords knew this soil, Tell them, Yes tell them That to be someone else is expensive, And ask them To choose between the apparels weaved with our toil And the garments that swam the sea.
Without the sirens, Our fathers heard the marriage bells.
…but all I need is you. I want to be the one of your everyone, To soar the comfort your duvet gives, To be in reverie when your thoughts flood my mind, To be your desire when the dawn is cold, To be that log your garden prefers in its centre And to lick the sweet fluids from your inner lips, For your touch does more than tickle my desire for a gentle caress.
I want nothing more Than you in my arms Till forever and a day Becomes the past that never existed.
Before the cathedrals, We knew good and evil. Before the cathedrals, We knew the way to our GOD. Before the cathedrals, We knew. What happened to us, Sons and daughters of the soil? Why did we call our sacred land evil? Why did we call our cultural values primitive? Why did we look down on ourselves?
We’ve allowed people kill our essence. How do we then enjoy the fruits of our land?
…I thought ’tis one of the odd days of love Where the curls of your hair will walk away from me, And still, respond with a wink. Where dashing for the doorknob Was just a way you expressed anger and disgust— It wasn’t.
At least, it could’ve been voiced—this breakup, Or probably said over lunch, But it came with a beep— A text laced with thorny swords— A text as deadly as a serpent’s venom— A text, midget-like, but full of pain. It whispered it’s over, For another sits on the heart’s throne.