Showing posts from November, 2009

But His Choice is Hard

You could see him on the busy avenue
Searching for someone new, on faces he hardly knew.
Every hand is a helping hand
Holding out a magic wand
And his life he meekly offers to their transformation
Which seem, each day, to be on its way though on crutches.

He would smile to your scorn,
Flinch to fun…
And plead to your humanity,
If you’ve still got one.
“Brother, please…”

Do you need to hear his tale
To know he has pain?
Can’t you see the boulder
On his shoulder?
It tells in his voice
He’s made a hard choice
How far can you go
To help another man’s ego?
He knows what it means
To live without means
Crawl amongst the rich
Choose between poverty and disease.



A sudden pang of pain hit my left arm, then my left lap, and swiftly some sort of paralysis grazed all the energy in the muscles. Slowly it got darker, and darker, I knew I was sinking from the sun, from everything I knew; my family hundreds of miles awaiting my return, my friends who sensibly played it safe at the shoreline.

An hour or so earlier, we had arrived the beach, a team of new colleagues. That was to be our final picnic before we were scattered across the country, after a rigorous six month training course in telecommunication. It was my first time on a real beach.

Maybe I wasn’t aware of the danger yet, but I was sinking, sinking on my first day in an ocean. The pain in my muscles was racking my brain and I couldn’t move the arm and leg, and the other two good ones were perhaps still waiting for an impulse. Maybe my body was stupefied or something, but my mind still was unperturbed. There was a flash of my childhood.

Back then when nakedness meant nothing, I had enj…

She is Here

The raging wind is her being
Her breath will ravage your skin
Chill your bones till they go stone numb
And soon you’d be collecting broken strands
Of your hair
Like those dead leaves she feeds the patched soil

She is here…
Moisten your lips or you’d be sorry you didn’t
Clad your self in wool or you’d be sorry you didn’t
She is here…

She rapes the trees bare
Renders the sun a shadow of itself
And drinks the rivers dry

She is here…
Mother of dust and dryness
Princess of the Sahara dunes
Yet she has no ear for poetry
No fear
Her music is rufflerustlesqueakcreak
You are left to wonder how she dances through
Such clatter
Or even make it through her own haze

With ferocity she has come to reign
Having just seized the rain

Like a bold thief she will bang on
Your windows and door
While you snuggle deeper into the sheets

Still wonder why they call her Hamattan?

2009© J.Ifeme