Showing posts from January, 2010

This Street Was Home ( contd.)


This room holds my deepest childhood secrets
Sundry memories bounce off its firm old walls
Teleporting me beyond two decades back in time
My early teens
Its tender love, boundless joy
My early sins

The dice of life were re-cast and the sixes failed to show
This un-weathered wooden door closed on my first love
Now a grey haired man squints and holds it wide open
… We smile in mutual recognition
Suddenly my great expectation is on par with futility
So much for the young face I’d hoped to find again

I remember the tears
The truck saddled with our possessions
The friendliest images recoiling from the side-view mirror
The engine gunning for another home beyond the city of Kano

I remember the heart rending fears
The wishful thoughts, the regrets
And now I’m grateful I left to grow
… And found better ways to regret my regrets

2010 © J.Ifeme


This Street Was Home

It was a long time since
Coups and counter-coups fanned optimism –
A long time since the Emir and his colorful royal Durban
Made their yearly passage amidst thunderous applause –
A long time since we were exuberant kids and owned this street!

Those were times made of gold.

When goal posts formed between electric poles
And heaps of stone
And football on road-sides made common sense
When street teams sprouted like young plants on manure soil

Our skies sparkled with Bollywood stars
And we memorized Indian songs, remade their scripts
With our plastic water-guns
Feigned death, impersonated, and got each others drenched over
False diamonds
Made from smashed windscreens and motor head-lamps
While this street cheerfully looked-on and let us grow

This street shielded our innocence
Scolded our misadventures
Parents didn’t have to raise only their own
Or bother about how the next person worshipped their god

Our ignorance was our bliss
Perhaps that I now miss

Emir Road is now like a haggar…

A Dip By A Finger

Once again the world remembers
We the good people
Seen through a tainted
We the good people
Paying for the sins of a

We hold hands across
A nation battered and abused
A land looted and confused –
our blistered hands!
A finger has soiled the hands.

December 2009 © J.Ifeme

Waiting for an End

I look into your eyes,
I see my face -
a lone reflection on your opaque
their rich blackness
sparkling with the brightness
of polished stones

shinning forth is a soul-light
probing not the way back
but picking on my many faults
and questioning my imperfections

my heart beats against yours
like a drum lost
lost in itself
lost in yours
lost in this sensual universe made
by our flitting warmth.

I pull you even closer
aware you’d already left –
wishing I could make a trunk feel…

refusing to hold back
I soul-dive yet I can not find you
and I fight to see you as I saw you…

reminiscing the gullibility
of yesteryears -
the vainness of vanity

reawakening, not dead guilt
not pain
not self pity
but that first love
that sweet-nothing now buried
in spent-time like the world it once existed.

I look into your eyes
I see endless space
where a cold world impervious
to the sound of word
and the beating of my longing heart
against yours lo…