Muse: Morning in the rain season

Here has become something else without much of the sun
The wind takes her toil, she dances about with no care

When the South forge towards the cold rainy season

The queer climate of the evening is seen in the morning

The mildness, softness of the wind makes all, everything cold,

Even when the sun rise, her warmth is little, insignificant

Overshadowed by the icy cold, a very strong reminder

Of strange tales of wild cold places; Utopia, some vampire land

Yet this early morning was just being born,

And a lot have not been seen, for the day is young



Dear diary,
Night falls now…

The city is quiet
Save from toads
Out in the field
And wild crickets
Hiding on the walls

The distinct noises
Of a quarelling couple
Disturb my thoughts
Down on this bed,
I count the days work

There were strange clouds
Up the clouds today
There were tales in my mind
And a quiet time…
Each in different times

Brick walls of school
Playful kids all about
But hey, maths is important
So you must pay attention
Pythagoras, Guassian, Boyle

There’s a pile on my bed
ODM, Igbo bible, NIV, etc
Teachers Math guide, hmm
A feel of mental work

The streets…
And from the window
The bean-ball vendor
Hawk her products
Nothing really changed

The bank…
Fidelity, we keep our words
Okay oo, I heard you
Then: Have a nice day!
They shout after me

Okay, Teevee…
Flipping the channels
BBC, Brexit, Aljazeera, EU
Obama, Buhari, Ali, Trump
France, Syria, Biafra, Venezuela

Pick of cracker biscuits
Vit. C, Iodine, peppery soup
Some heavy carbohydrates
And a taste of garlic

The streets busybodies…
They stare always all times
Like very seriously?
You do see me pass
Thru here always, don’t ya?

And street again…
Went strolling and visiting,
Fascinated by the peace in me
Even though the world
Seem to fall slowly apart…

I wonder
What our world
Is fast becoming,
And why kids die in vain
While nations watch war films

But now I recall all
And hope for a better tomorrow
As I retire for the day!

Come this thunder, 1967

Come this thunder
When the nights glitter with explosions
The resemblance of fire-cracker carnivals
And as the rattling for supremacy
Is heard from heartless machine guns
Spewing the seeds of destruction
Upon unfortunate children and men
‘Kwaa-pu kwaa-pu kwaa-pu, unu dum!’
‘Leave here,’ the emissaries of death say
Flying limbs, headless bodies and chaos
Destruction to humanity and justice
But the world stood watching
As children turn pale, clutching
Hungrily to their protuding intestines
No salt, no salt, no salt!
Meanwhile the jets throw their bombs
Murdering defenceless people and clans
The infantry is filled with anger
Bloodthirst, frustration and revenge
And the world watched it all
It was an action packed movie

But let the fowl allow the worm be
No matter how they chose to live
For freedom is deserving to all people
Who desire it wholeheartedly

Line 8: Kwaa-pu kwaa-pu kwaa-pu, unu dum! An Onomatopoiea for the sound of heavy artillery and in Igbo meaning ‘Leave here, leave there, leave here, all of you!’

For the Biafran babies and Christopher Okigbo