NAIJA BLOG

 You were picked, ripe and ready for harvest virle and strong blood clean You were a tool, useful for your part useless for  everything else you would die so they could live the distinguished and the rich But you would strike like a snake you little being who didnt deserve to live you would destroy a man  who had lived in privildged discordance before you had been birthed you little one would destoy one who had many  things but couldnt  have life who bought the houses so that people would die in dirty hospitals, drinking dirty water whose familiy was picturesqe on the glossy tabloids which children in Cambridge, Eton and Harvard Who wanted from you what he could never give Little barrow pusher, little phone seller, with a future as dark as a moonless sky who grew up on the streets drinking water from a plastic wrap eating food from typhoid plates dreaming of a life that could not promised David, you would have sold your kidney so they could live David you  ...

  In the midst of my sorrows I cried to God to add to me blessing I felt I deserved but God was busy crying  for the dead Sammy Teucsh Blond, green eyed adorable boy  who took his life at ten  God was wailing for the dead babies that are slaughtered in Zamfara and Gusau and the dead that will be killed in the killing fields of Oturkpo God was staring tenderly the child with Down syndrome destined to live of a life of turmoil and grief of the child with no hands and no feet rolling on the beach God was busy comforting the sad and too busy to answer my need for more  

 One a sunny morning was the day you died alone on the street while the crowd gawked and snapped to their delight we took you to save you in the back seat of the car i wondered why no one saved you  they snapped and gawked as you lay fallen on the street there you were forty-something neatly dressed, with black tights a bagco bag rolled up you were going to shop and the crowd gawkedand snapped so we drove to save you Maitama General would not save you No bed they said, while you lay dying in the car the good samaritan told me how his mother had died and he saw her, a vain woman, strewn on the floor the young doctor was in tears so young and so new, life would teach you that life was cheap the police commended us for saving you nameless one the morgue keeper was another god who denied entry to body of the dead your family came in tears tried to pay for my help On the day you died, i wore green and  drove you to rest. Rest in Peace, Nameless one  

 There I was, sick son in hand,  visiting the hospital the faces there were all bowed as if hiding I played with the little child and the cross-eyed baby and talked to the mother about ways to remedy the sight I saw the prancing man, who didn't care and tall giant with beautiful eyes there sat quietly a buxom lady on the wooden seats it was  our turn then I knew from the card that was carried by the couple in front  a card as long as an examination sheet the couple, a mustached man and his wife entwined in eternity and in drugs then I knew  the hidden faces the guarded eyes the wandering stares that looked as I walked and talked nonchalantly the prancing man I knew 

 God loves his poets and artists and he speaks to them through whispers at the dead of the night through sudden bursts of epiphany Through a lingering thought that will not die through the lingering dream that will not fly away God loves his poets and artists because like him, they create replicate life, replicate dreams God loves his poets and artists through them, dreams are born through them, lives are lived Through them, eternity is found God loves his poets and artists that is why we must cherish this gift

 I see it in your eyes you will be the death of me you the hand that begs of me, will be the hand that kills me your eyes, the rove and wonder for more despising the little I give you, wanting the more I have. Restless wandering thief the heart of a murderer you steal as I give angry that I have your skills I need your presence I dont. You of the hand that begs, the hand that steals 

 I will not win this battle for it is the battle of tongues against deeds the battle of envy against intentions the battle of the naive against the master of trickery I cannot play this game so I must grapple with  poisonous words  strewn against the dark corridors lies that execute without judgment spread by those well-versed in the game the game convoluted deception seeped in charismatic tones and devilish  smiles,  played by the maestro of deception the jury meets in the darkness of offices and cafeterias to plot and destroy as I strive ....to live, to fight, to win this futile battle

 One day, many rainy seasons ago I beheld a sight that depicted the harmony  of nature and man, now forgotten  amidst the quest for success and horrors of defeat between life's angst and life's rest I saw a Fula boy lying on the white sand banks of a peaceful lake across the lake, some cows stood munching some fresh green grass while  the Fula boy played his flute a harmonious sound that flirted in the wind  sedating the cows who munched contentedly comforting my soul with  its healing sounds

  I see the death in the eyes of the children The thousand yards stare in the women In the empty markets And defeated shopkeepers I see the lost look in the eyes in the gaunt  Trekkers with threadbare shirts And battered soles And dying souls This is a defeated place Voices are lost in the multitude of sounds Cries boomerang like the rabble of weak and old Empty echoes We receive the boot of the clones For cries And bullets for our concerns The democracy of the armed,  Demarcated between dark-tinted land cruisers and ammoed goons Who speed past the dying nation We lay our necks for the armed fulas like goats  And Our ailments treated by quacks We die unsung by the minute This is our fate in this dying nation

 Through this journey I have learnt to look at the eyes  to know the story to look beneath the tale to find  the meaning to make every child smile because they never forget kindness or sorrow to leave something for someone  no matter how small

 Nothing is really ours the beauty, the wealth, the youth,  the life Nothing is really ours

 His eyes weren't there  When he talked about his journey through Agadez,  They were distant and full of memories Of the dying men and thirsty throats His eyes were far when he talked about Libya and the journey through the sea I saw him seated on the faulty boat that capsized in the middle of the sea.  His eyes became bright, the uncombed wiry igbo man of utako,  Selling his Okrika When he talked about the dolphins who came to save them,  How they jumped gracefully And sent signals to the border guards And I fell in love with dolphins that day Seeing them as he saw them Graceful and emphatic  Saviours of men He came back and would go again I said to him You have been saved so many times Why go back and tempt fate He shook his head and couldn't explain And I saw the wanderlust set like a dark cloud. The journey was his path Someday I think of the thin wiry man And wonder if the sun and sand of Agadez, got him If Libya or ISIS got him If the sea got him...

 What if she was the brightest girl That ever lived And she had the cure for cancer Or the code that would make Elon go crazy What if she would have been the brightest lawyer Or the deepest writer Whose thoughts could change humanity What if she birthed the one who would change the world Or would have been an astronaut What if she wasn't a young child of ten Leg  amputated Eyes bleeding with lost hope Looking for stipends Looking for something What is she wasn't sad and depressed Ten year old and fated for sorrow Ten year old girl child amputee Sitting on the market floor Begging  What if she wasn't burdened by The lustfull gaze of the pedophiles The indifference of strangers The helpless of parents The despair of poverty What if? 

 When you realise that The dark eyed child, dying in an earthquake The child and waiting  vulture The dying man carried by his children The children burning on infernos Or matcheted by the Fulanis All wailed and cried When you realise That the orphans going to bed hungry Or going to bed raped And having the lost helpless look in their eyes All looked to heaven and wailed When you realise That cries of pain And the sisypean loop of tragedy and success Never end You know that in the end, the truly pure are  The truly forsaken

 We meet in dreams Across the chasm of the unspoken There our eyes meet Our hands touch And our hearts say what they wish to say We love in dreams with our silent words Our healing touch  Our defiant hearts that draw us close Amidst several waters In dreams we are safe To say and to stare To love and to hope We meet in dreams  Because reality is strange And places  us in the prisons of our hands