STILL BIRTH DREAMS

BLOGGER'S NOTE

Last year in the wake of the Nigerian Senate's apparent endorsement of Sani Yerima's predilection for child brides, a #GirlChildNotBride campaign got under way on Twitter, providing inspiration for today's poem.

In this poem, the persona bemoans the plight of child brides, a malaise in many societies in Africa and elsewhere. Enjoy the poem then afterwards, the sober video below from the Pulitzer Centre.

STILL BIRTH DREAMS

Yesterday, a prank played on bestie.

We walked and joked.

To school we went.

The books I loved.

The tests I passed.

The sun. The skies.

The mountain I adore.

What a beautiful world of love!

Dreams I have and I dare to dream.

Big Mega dreams of hope.

I'll build some things. I'll find some cures.

I'll lead the men. I'll conquer space.

I'll win my cases. I'll dig so deep.

I'll fly so high. I'll touch the sky.

My vision is clear. My will is tough.

My dreams cocooned in my mind's egg.

Delicate, fragile all at once.

My brain does grow. My body too grows.

Like a budding flower tending to full bloom.

Look forward to the day my dreams would hatch.

Then came the knock. Abrupt.

Insistent. Persistent. Merciless!

Oh which giant goes there?

What intrusion is this?

This scorching pain of metal slug,

Piercing my tender skin. My soul.

The Eggs of my dream?

Father won't you stop him?

Mother would you stand and watch?

Brother why can't you save me?

Neighbours why keep mute?

Madman Ara wailed about a mad law,

Hatched in Abuja prodded by a bearded goat.

Ara are these your tears of sorrow?

Is this why you cried?

Oh sad day filled with inglorious bastards!

Hope forever extinguished!

Like a slave. Sold. Betrayed. Denied.

Dreams stillbirthed by the callous thrust of a demented groin.

An endangered specie, I become- the Nigerian Girl Child with childhood lost.

An adult I am before a child I be.

Childhood gone with the perverse lust of bearded goats.

Uche Okorie (c) July 21, 2013.

*Dedicated to the Nigerian and indeed other Girl Children around the world.

HOT SHIT!

BLOGGER'S NOTE

Have you ever felt the onset of a violent, ain't-taking-no-for-an-answer, insistent, destined to embarrass, fuck-what-the-world-thinks, insane hot shit (feaces. ewwh!) in the middle of the day, in a seventh world public infrastructure deficient country? If you haven't count yourself blessed. If you have well, your experience may have had a happier ending.

No such luck for the persona who recounts his tragic experience in rhyming verse. 

Enjoy the poem. Make sure you do. Then go on to Amanda Diva's spoken word poetry and discover that all #hot shit# need not be sooo "merdique"! Excuse my French please.

 

HOT SHIT!
Hot and insistent. 

Bristling with intent. 

Bowels clap like thunder. 

Buttocks threaten asunder. 

Droplets of sweat. 

Even with no heat.

Gingerly walk. 

Muted talk. 

Hands akimbo. 

Who sees that bimbo? 

Farts are Shooting. 

Fingers biting. 

Stomach rumble. 

Senses fumble....

Roads and Rivers. 

Cars and Drivers. 

Strange Faces. 

Frantic Paces. 

Hot shit bellow. 

Can't it mellow? 

Skin turns Yellow. 

Toilets flee. 

None I see

Hot shit threatens. 

Buttock tightens. 

Jail break in Kirikiri. 

Brain contemplates hara-kiri. 

Hot shit descend. 

Is this the end?

Buttocks tickle. 

Hot shit fickle. 

Furtive glance. 

Desperate trance. 

Inundation beckon. 

Shame I reckon. 

Scan buildings. 

Growl like Wildlings.

Desperation change gears. 

It's my worst fears. 

Then I see it. 

'Staff Only Toilet'. 

Buttocks stifles giant farts.
As I hop to Arts.

Faded billboard smiles. 

Shit has travelled miles. 

Buttocks grin. 

I may yet win. 

Hands to door move. 

Eager shove. 

Door shows no love.

Surprise and danger. 

Disbelief and anger. 

Heavy Padlock damn! 

Shame's onrush dawn. 

Hot shit says enough. 

Buttocks spit a cough. 

Splutter Splat.

Splatter Split

Volcanoes erupt. 

Hope ends abrupt. 

Wetness felt. 

Boxers melt. 

Mocking looks.

Campus freaks

Hot shit free. 

Buttocks spree.

Hot Shit rain. 

Only flies gain. 

Uche Okorie (c) 3rd February, 2014.

BRANDISH THE BANDITS

BLOGGER'S NOTE

I'm done with posting materials from way-back. From this point forward, this blog would serve you freshly minted poems. Ain't that great? This one is titled "Brandish the Bandits!". Make of it what you will. Ain't gonna spoon feed you with what the persona is thinking or saying. Figure that out for yourself. It's poetry for f***'s sake. It's capable of many interpretations. If this piece lends itself to numerous interpretations then I'll consider that it was a decent effort. If it does not? Tough luck!

I would indulge you with a video though- DayZ (Yeah that ain't a typo) parody of Taylor Swift's I Knew You Were a Bandit.




Brandish the Bandits!
Tell them they are nitwits.
If they start a fight
Feed them the light.
They eat pitch darkness
Is that not why they are hungry?
They may well be angry!
But would it stop my frankness?
I have no thoughts for mean men
Though I think of hymen.
It's a crown yet a pain
More like loss wedded to gain.

If this blood tells a story
why not flood my ears with glory?
why not have eyes for the gory?
why not set out in a flurry?
why choose to run my race

even if I am out of pace?
do you think I'm in a hurry?

I spew expletives like a missive
because this mess is massive.
would you rather I stay passive
when all around is radioactive?

I gave up hope on the bandits
for they set out on a frolic.
Asabe asked why panic?
I told her they are dimwits!
But who would cage a tiger
running amok in a clay hut?
I can see the skies are heavy
but would it fall on a rich rat?
Would it spare the savvy
while crushing the rigger?

So again I say brandish
even though they furnish
reputations that tarnish
ain't they just rubbish?
can they be cleaned by varnish?
who can darkness burnish?
if it's white it'll vanish
if it's pure it'll perish
if it's crooked it'll flourish
if it's spoilt it'll nourish
if it's straight it'll famish

Wait I ain't finished!
Let me wail my bowels
at least I have my vowels.
These brigands have ravished.
They ate the goat and the grass
now the sand is lonely and nude.
At the grass's requiem mass,
the bare sand was called crude
so they hired the shovel
to teach the sand a lesson.
The shovel shoved a lesion
for the earth barked a grovel
while the stars gazed in marvel.
The bandits spat some drivel
we all froze in revel.

But whose funeral is it?
the goat? the grass? the sand?
the bandit? the shovel? the earth?
You? I? we? them?
I belong to a band
they cry with mirth,
thinking another realm
daydreaming the night
but snubbing the light!

So will I weep for sight?
or for what is right?
or for gold and silver?
as hopes grow dimmer?
will I laugh and curse?
or bless and cry?
will I write a letter
and start a patter?
will I shout a stutter?
or whisper a banter?
Should they steal the purse?
or leave us to fry?
We feel the heat
though it's cold inside.

So do you have teeth to eat meat
as they kill your pride?
Are you willing to make noise
in the quiet of this graveyard?
would you lose poise
or stay mad
till it becomes a fad?


Uche Okorie (c) 10th January, 2014.

THE ILLUSIONISTS

BLOGGER'S NOTE

Continuing with yesterday's thematic preoccupation of expressing fears for our democracy, the persona in today's poem which was written in 2002, carries on in similar vein. Whereas yesterday's poem was free verse, this one does have a rhyme structure.

The accompanying video is a classic song by the late Ozzidi Crooner, Sunny Okosun asking quite poignantly "Which way Nigeria?"

Enjoy the video and then the poem even more!

THE ILLUSIONISTS
Be gone night!
cowering fright
aeonic assholes,
crown rabid butt holes!
both-demented souls!

Rifle proclaim, “abnegation!”
Darkness- why this stagnation?
Aha! Lincolnic prognosis
reveals military psychosis.

Welcome Day!
See! bold May
It is democracy
excited voter’s say!
But tell me whose agency
has begotten this warped progeny?

This freak with rogue features
that pricks us with sharp dentures?

Bedraggled smear by interior gangs
serpent beyond bearing their fangs
Democracy why this bond?
Alas! must we tread utopian pond?
all our glad tomorrows buried in fear!

Uche Okorie (c) Feb, 2002.

INSALUBRIOUS MIX

BLOGGER'S NOTE
Written in 2002 during the run up to the 2003 elections, today's second poem takes a troubled look at the political signs of the day, succinctly analyses the history of the Nigerian nation and rather forlornly predicts a punctuation of the current democratic dispensation 'by the sound of a gun' if the 'insalubrious' or unwholesome mix that are Nigerian politicians do not turn new leaves and hearken to good counsel.

On the eve of the 2015 elections, 11 years later has anything really changed? Is the political mix less insalubrious or more? You be the judge.

In the meantime, guess what Mr Zombie says he attributes his Olympic success at the Zombie Olympics to? Yeah you guessed right.

Insalubrious mix!

hearken not speculation

of ennobled wits;

embedded in ceaseless vituperations

spluttered by mother’s son.

Yes! Insalubrious mix

go unheard, go unheeded

hearken only to macabre flute

sleep eternal assured.

Insalubrious mix!

caged in Lugard’s den

drunk of palm

courage beguiled

rickety legs run! run!

Insalubrious mix!

hearken tumultuous future's call

speculation of ennobled wits wail

yet go unheard, go unheed.

Yes! Insalubrious mix

Smash! 

with parts carelessly flung apart

integrated insides reveal

in the dying throes of doomed delight

dreams broken at the sound of a gun.

Uche Okorie (c) Feb 2002

BARGAIN LOSS

BLOGGER'S NOTE.

According to a UNAIDS 2013 document (AIDS by the numbers) "Globally, the number of new HIV infections continues to fall. There were 2.3 million new HIV infections [1.9 million–2.7 million] in 2012. This is the lowest number of annual new infections since the mid-to-late 1990s, when approximately 3.5 million [3.3 million–4.1 million] people were acquiring HIV every year. The number of HIV infections declined by more than 50% in 26 countries between 2001 and 2012 and between 25% and 49% in an additional 17 countries."

At the height of the HIV/AIDS pandemic sometime in 2003 (with national prevalence rates as high as 5.0) today's poem was written. Back then there was a lot of misinformation in the public space and it was not uncommon to find people ignorant about the disease. Such ignorance led to all kinds of idiotic prejudices.

The persona (a man) in the poem in a way reinforces such prevalent thinking then, that HIV was a function strictly of loose morals and that anyone living with the disease must have led a lifestyle of pure debauchery. The poem at a certain level perpetuates the myth of HIV being a just recompense for waywardness. But we do know that as babies born with the virus and other modes of infections prove, it is not simply an issue of Karma for hideous sins, unless one is to argue (quite dumbly, in this instance if you ask me) that Karma is generational and that the sins of the Parents must as of necessity be visited on the Off-springs. 

These flaws notwithstanding, the persona can through his lamentation of regrets be seen to encourage abstinence, a behaviour which was and still remain a viable tool in the fight against HIV.  

The video below highlights famous people (mainly Americans) who succumbed to AIDS. Our own Fela Kuti also did. In some of the cases, the poem could as well be an ode to them as well as countless others we may know or not know . Ciao!

BARGAIN LOSS

Here I lie...

Wasted of breath

enriched with filth

putrefied outcome

of dangerous liaisons.

Lusts bouts perpetual
gnawing at my loins
pushing me to brothels
houses, roads, places.

Who cares she's married
single, divorced, complicated?
Who cares for height,
weight, depth, breadth?
Who cares she's black,
white, red, green or purple?

Oh! That blind was I
seeing not the aggressive
sway of those plump lumps

Oh! That deaf was I
hearing not the frenetic moans

of those lush voices

Oh! That numb was I

feeling not the welcome warmth

of those gushing gapes

Oh! That dumb was I 
hearing not the quickened breath 
of those flared nostrils.

Twinkly eyed ascent sighs.

crescendo peak descent crash!
Have I eternity bargained

by mere sprinkling of seed? 

Beat this farewell sonorous drums.

Uche Okorie (c) 18^th Jan, 2003.

ALOOF!

BLOGGER'S NOTE

People do stay aloof for a variety of reasons. Sometimes it's justified. At other times it simply isn't. While we can afford to be aloof emotionally in our interpersonal relationships can we afford to be aloof culturally, socially, politically, intellectually (and basically all the other 'allys'?) Can we continue to play the Ostrich while 'greed flows in turbulent rows' in our national lives?

This 2010 poem from my archives, in a sense seeks to explore that question and concludes that the end result of being aloof is poof!- in other words a sudden disappearance of the earth. Earth being here a symbol of our life's essence. Of our surroundings. Of all that we hold dear. Of us.

Just imagine if we all suddenly disappear? Let me prod you along that path. Watch the likely scenario if humans were to suddenly poof! Then read the poem and stop the indifference today! Give a hoot about politics. About society. About the next person. About the Earth!

Ciao!

A healthy branch

it was once,

luxuriant in launch 

ready to pounce

till apathy came

and made game. 

The verve left

and traitors crept

gliding up branch

making buffet lunch

eating health paltry 

causing stem cry

Now paltry branch

exudes such stench!

for greed flows

in turbulent rows

from quiet fishwife

welded to strife.

That stem sick

with perverse lick 

of hokum soil

in angry spoil

feeds paltry branch

fat with stench.

The cringing root

sees much soot

her tired pout

squeals this shout

from scorched gut

by greedy lot.

It's a goof!

Doomsday and poof!

The earth rots

aint this proof

we'll become dots

cos we're aloof?

Uche Okorie (c) 2010