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Olu Oguibe teaches art and art history at the University of Connecticut, USA. Author of
three books of poetry including an award-winning collection, Oguibe has also published poetry in anthologies,
journals and the popular media in Europe, Africa and the US. He lives in Storrs, Connecticut.
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One
for John Agbogbo
Stocky one from Kpalime
Kwaku!
When they made fun of his small member
He asked them what makes a man
A big member or a large heart?
Kwaku, I have sown in drifting sands
I have planted and reaped nothing
I have laboured on the edges of a gully
I have watched my dreams sprout
And roast in the sun like okro seeds
I have paddled the river of death
I have known sorrow
We planted cocoa
The gods from Lomé bulldozed it
They said cocoa no longer
Brings money from the whiteman
We ploughed the seed under and planted cassava
Again the gods from Lomé bulldozed it
They said cassava never sells
In the marketplace of strangers
For two moons tears flooded the land
Kojo the possessed took his own life
Yet the gods in Lomé did not tire
We hoed our sorrows into the soil
Knowing that the foot that tramples
Will one day be trampled
That thrones crumble and crowns rust
And the head that bobs above the crowd today
Will roll in a storm of dust tomorrow
We shaved our heads and planted yams
Now the sons of dogs from Lomé
Have bulldozed them into the sea!
Kwaku, who has known such madness?
We have washed our hands to feed wildfowl
Whoever brought this curse upon the innocent
Whoever brought this curse upon the weak
Whichever womb bore these ogres
Whichever breast suckled these fools
Who kill their kin to please strangers
Whoever raised these weeds among us...
I have known pain, stocky one
Rain has caught us half-way home
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Two
I say
Hurray! to the vendors of agony
Hurray! to the Horsemen
For every one of Mozambique's children
For every one of those seedlings ground into earth
every child that dies by the gun
every child that dies by the blow of an axe
every suckling torn from its mother's breasts
every foetus ripped from its mother's womb
every little victim of blazing mortars
every little star plucked from those skies
every bud of rose crushed into dust
every little flower
every fish, every fowl
every robin gobbled by the crocodile of war
every wooden cross in that nation of graves...
But where is the tongue of the weak?
Where under the sun is their voice?
I have looked upon the earth and seen the misery
I have looked around me and beheld the tears
Of such as were oppressed, maimed, killed
Run over by the horses of war
I have watched bloated bodies rot in the fields
The sons of women, fathers of men
Little babies rotting on the backs of their mothers
Mothers wrapping the bones of their children in sackcloth
The fruits of their womb, the fruits of love
Plucked green and unripe by the dogs of war
I have watched children floating on blood
In Saint George, in Monrovia, in Auzu
At home by the bridgehead in Onitsha
Chinandega, Matagalpa, Puerto Cabezas
Leon, Estéli, Rivas, Granada
Bullet holes in Sandino's straw hat
Neruda turns over in his grave
Woken by the crunch of soldiers boots
And in the streets tears have rained
For twenty years without cease
In Gaza, in Shatilla
Hagar weeps for her children
She would not be comforted
I have buried my own too
I have known the weight of corpses
Yet voices rise above this wailing
To clamour for war
I have chewed over the mystery:
Is there no mercy anywhere on earth?
Is there no love, no feeling, no bond
No little warmth in the hearts of men?
Is there no end to the passion for wounds?
Is there no hope
For the children of slaves?
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Three
for Dambudzo Marechera
When he died
They placed him wrapped in leaves
Of plantain and reed mat
Before the Stone Bird
Then
They unwrapped him in the sun
His face gleaming with warm sweat
Like he was only asleep
No one could believe
Ogbanjé!
Trespasser in the land of men
Streak of lightning before rain
Before you shudder, he is gone
Nwa muo!
Stray riff of a distant flute
Sailing on windwing
Destined for other lands
Brief as an eyelid bat
The rainbow, they say, does not last one sun
No pallbearer waits enough for kolanut
Omenuko!
Emigrant minstrel in the season of drought
Vagrant with rattle tongue
On one hand a skinbag of tales
On the other a palmfull of stones
Despised at home
Among his own
Feared abroad
Wherever he trod
They robed him in a sash of fame
And put a shackle on his name
But who could chain a weaverbird?
Who could snare a gust of wind?
Vapour spirit of the night
He shamed his ankle-leash
Ogbanjé!
He'll walk these paths again
I see scorn on this face
Gleaming like soapstone
Fleeting spirit of Wahungwe!
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Four
for Thomas Sankara
The gazelle's terrain is the grassland
The lion is king of the wild
The eagle perches on the Iroko tree
The eagle is king of birds
I pray the ancestors for guidance
Death stands before the King and he pleads on his knees
Death calls on the arrogant and he prostrates in the dust
Death that snatches the eagle and leaves the vulture
Death has snatched the fury from the whirlwind
Death has snatched away the panther of Burkina
Ah! Master of all
Master that strikes a youth when life is sweetest to him
Master that strikes down the sapling and leaves the ancient tree
Death has struck down the masquerade in the square
I pray the ancestors for guidance
The times are dark and the footpath wet
If the blind looses his stick the future is a wall
Evil walks in the open wielding a club
The warriors are gone while cowards stomp the arena
Fools dig up ancient hooves and urinate on graves
Sorcerers swing our fate from their little fingers
Night has unleashed wolves upon the land
The power of song fails me
Death has taken the goatherd now rustlers run wild
Let's pray the ancestors for guidance
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2004-2007 the Dublin Quarterly--to see familiar things with unfamiliar eyes!
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