We present this work in honor of the 205th anniversary of the poet’s death.
Usman dan Fodio Nigerian 1754 – 1817
Leave us alone with recalling what Father used to do… Leave us alone with relying on what Is practised in the east; These are grounds for those who Stayed astray from Sunnah Leave us with the idea that it is Practised at Medina Both Mecca and Medina are inferior to the Sunnah.
We are the miracles that God made To taste the bitter fruit of Time. We are precious. And one day our suffering Will turn into the wonders of the earth.
There are things that burn me now Which turn golden when I am happy. Do you see the mystery of our pain? That we bear poverty And are able to sing and dream sweet things
And that we never curse the air when it is warm Or the fruit when it tastes so good Or the lights that bounce gently on the waters? We bless things even in our pain. We bless them in silence.
That is why our music is so sweet. It makes the air remember. There are secret miracles at work That only Time will bring forth. I too have heard the dead singing.
And they tell me that This life is good They tell me to live it gently With fire, and always with hope. There is wonder here
And there is surprise In everything the unseen moves. The ocean is full of songs. The sky is not an enemy. Destiny is our friend.
How I wish I could pigeon-hole myself and neatly fix a label on! But self-knowledge comes too late And by the time I’ve known myself I am no longer what I was.
I knew a woman once who had a delinquent child. She never had a moment’s peace of mind waiting in constant fear, listening for the dreaded knock and the cold tones of policeman: “Madam, you’re wanted at the station” I don’t know if the knock ever came but she feared on right till we moved away from the street. She used to say “It’s the uncertainty that worries me – if only I knew for certain…”
If I only knew for certain What my delinquent self would do… But I never know until the deed is done And I live on fearing, wondering which part of me will be supreme – the old and tested one, the present or the future unknown. Sometimes all three have equal power and then how I long for a pigeon-hole.
And the horn may now paw the air howling goodbye… For the Eagles are now in sight: Shadows in the horizon— The robbers are here in black sudden steps of showers, of caterpillars— The eagles have come again, The eagles rain down on us— Politicians are back in giant hidden steps of howitzers, of detonators— The eagles descend on us, Bayonets and cannons— The robbers descend on us to strip us of our laughter, of our thunder— The eagles have chosen their game, Taken our concubines— Politicians are here in this iron dance of mortars, of generators—
The eagles are suddenly there, New stars of iron dawn; So let the horn paw the air howling goodbye… O mother mother Earth, unbind me; let this be my last testament; let this be The ram’s hidden wish to the sword the sword’s secret prayer to the scabbard—
The robbers are back in black hidden steps of detonators— For beyond the blare of sirened afternoons, beyond the motorcades; Beyond the voices and days, the echoing highways; beyond the latescence Of our dissonant airs; through our curtained eyeballs, through our shuttered sleep, Onto our forgotten selves, onto our broken images; beyond the barricades Commandments and edicts, beyond the iron tables, beyond the elephant’s Legendary patience, beyond his inviolable bronze bust; beyond our crumbling towers— Beyond the iron path careering along the same beaten track— The glimpse of a dream lies smouldering in a cave, together with the mortally wounded birds. Earth, unbind me; let me be the prodigal; let this be the ram’s ultimate prayer to the tether…
An old star departs, leaves us here on the shore Gazing heavenward for a new star approaching; The new star appears, foreshadows its going Before a going and coming that goes on forever…
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 70th birthday.
Catherine Obianuju Acholonu Nigerian 1951 – 2013
I
Our hands grope in vain the springs have dried up leaving us with salt water and we remember the days when the hooting of the owl sanctified our mortality
we stand paralyzed like skeletons mounted on the sandy soil struggling against the dry wind blowing sand into our eyes which have since ceased to see
footprints of blessed ages past deeply backed on to the soil show the way to the horizon and beyond but we cannot reach it you and I
our kisses bite like grains of sand in the eye then our bodies touch like two scaly fish we stand paralyzed like two accursed.
II
We plunge ourselves into the abyss mindless of the outcome our blind eyes surveying the darkness and in the labyrinths we grope and sniff for signs of our brothers in the catacombs at the gate we present our printed tickets decaying lips toothless gums cracking laughter
shameless folk that seek entrance into the land of their fathers you cannot partake of the coummunion without you ofo without your chi
and we are back at the cross-roads dreading once more to cross the horizon having she our outer shell.
III
Contact telegraphic our sons speak a foreign language devoid of feeling devoid of meaning
what choice have we but to take refuge in obganje passing excrement into the mouths of our daughters our ever mourning mothers
home again and yet homeless a dreary failure for a nameless folk.
We present this work in honor of the poet’s 100th birthday.
Gabriel Okara Nigerian 1921 – 2019
Once upon a time, son, they used to laugh with their hearts and laugh with their eyes: but now they only laugh with their teeth, while their ice-block-cold eyes search behind my shadow.
There was a time indeed they used to shake hands with their hearts: but that’s gone, son. Now they shake hands without hearts while their left hands search my empty pockets.
‘Feel at home!’ ‘Come again’: they say, and when I come again and feel at home, once, twice, there will be no thrice- for then I find doors shut on me.
So I have learned many things, son. I have learned to wear many faces like dresses – homeface, officeface, streetface, hostface, cocktailface, with all their conforming smiles like a fixed portrait smile.
And I have learned too to laugh with only my teeth and shake hands without my heart. I have also learned to say,’Goodbye’, when I mean ‘Good-riddance’: to say ‘Glad to meet you’, without being glad; and to say ‘It’s been nice talking to you’, after being bored.
But believe me, son. I want to be what I used to be when I was like you. I want to unlearn all these muting things. Most of all, I want to relearn how to laugh, for my laugh in the mirror shows only my teeth like a snake’s bare fangs!
So show me, son, how to laugh; show me how I used to laugh and smile once upon a time when I was like you.
The usurers will see their bellies swell bigger than gourds
In size and exposed to Ahmada.
They will rise on the Last Day as if possessed of the Devil
The Qur’an told their fate, Ahmada.
The stink of the adulterer is worse than the stench of carrion:
He will be driven away, so that he is far from Ahmada.
The slanderer, the hypocrite
And he who gives false witness will not see Ahmada.
With their tongues hanging down to their chests, they will be exposed
For they will not get salvation from Ahmada.
No Madonna and Child could touch
that picture of a mother’s tenderness
for a son she soon would have to forget.
The air was heavy with odours
of diarrhoea of unwashed children
with washed-out ribs and dried-up
bottoms struggling in laboured
steps behind blown empty bellies. Most
mothers there had long ceased
to care but not this one; she held
a ghost smile between her teeth
and in her eyes the ghost of a mother’s
pride as she combed the rust-coloured
hair left on his skull and then –
singing in her eyes – began carefully
to part it… In another life this
would have been a little daily
act of no consequence before his
breakfast and school; now she