Showing posts from December, 2010


You could hear my silent protests, if you listened. But I hearken to your whistle, bow to your idiosyncrasies, render my dignity in non-reciprocated measures. I am a dog on a string, training my fangs, listening to my leash and lapping your feet - waiting for the day of selective amnesia. Jude Ifeme

Somewhere New

Tell my mama I have no map Tell my papa I left his cap That I have seen images of Europe And there I might find some hope I’m done waiting for the oil Or wealth of abundant gas For ages they’ve bare the soil And the proceeds theirs This desert has my shoes But I keep to things I knew Don’t know what they’d be telling you Mama, seal your ears to the news This sun sears my skin And the distance drives insane But my dream I hide within I will find some place in Spain Till I cross that deep blue sea ‘Don’t know what my eyes will see Tell my papa I left his cap Tell my mama I have no map If some day I return Their lives I will fill with fun But if home I don’t come I still know where I am from But, mama, I have no map Papa, I know you love that cap Jude Ifeme

STAY DEAD (Short Story)

STAY DEAD                                               By: Jude Ifeme Body becomes lead Blood runs chill The dead stays dead… He looks closely at the corpse. The face though thoroughly battered and swollen is entirely alien to him. Hey fool, he thinks; how did you get my number? How did you know my name? How did you… oh, you won’t even know anymore; you are dead! That’s it. You-are-dead… Six months ago someone started dropping an unusually large stack of cash into the collection box for the poor, every Sunday. It all started with ten thousand, then twenty, and then a hundred. At first the church was impressed. One Thursday morning, they discovered the key to the collection box had been broken, and a briefcase lined with twenty million lay inside. Now the church was concerned. Was this a soul redemption move? Was it just charity? No one could tell. There are three rules a man must abide by if he is to survive a crazy world as this: first is, protect his life; second is


If you’ve held the hand of a dying, then you would know that death can breathe; you’d feel the calm rush of air deserting inflexible fringes – the veins, the nerves letting go their cares for life and lungs contracting, unwillingly at first, before ceasing for the very last time. You’d feel the body heave, surrendering memories, abandoning worries, sending forth the soul. If you’d listened closely enough you’d heard their subtle exhale, though you may not hear or feel death inhale. And if you do not feel or hear another breath, and if you feel as helpless as you have never been then it’s time to morn the dead. If you’ve ever held the hand of a dying and you stayed close enough, you’d realized that life is not the beginning and that death is not the end. (C) JUDE Ifeme