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« Igbos of Shame | Main | HIV Prevalence in Africa Distorted by Statistics »

June 23, 2006

A Man of the People

A Poem: by Ejiofor Alisigwe (London, England) ---

A MAN OF THE PEOPLE

Our Oga's smoking pipe is rigged to guzzle mmanu nkwu
A ripe nut for a squirrel emitting nkakwu
Oga is a fat cat claw on our sozzled land of pie
Oga also gutted the land Papa left us,clotted to die

Spouts of septicaemia blotted the doped riverines
And strangled the last breath of convulsive airings
From the indigenious fishes with emphysema to boot
While Oga stoke and belch with unquenchable enomity to hoot
The flaring of avoidable discontent

And as ever the open sores oozes stringent opulent cowries
Which lead flirtatiously prone to the rapacious seas

And after, do not dust your leperous feet with a complex loud tap
To cloud my weariest eyes too soon to your trap
I was blind not long after the experience
To want to read your sprinkled ash for clues
To see whether it was cast awide with golden cowries
And if need be for my tawdry emolument toot toot

Swiss Bank is a howling banshee of lore
Wishes to a Leprechaun's pot of gold to bore
Very nuetral and friendly to a faceless vault

The sun is out on your snowy mansions to bare
Secrets feted by your ingenious able host
And for the seal, Nobel gave you a knowing wink and a pat
And the right price for my share misappropriate

Will my value be a labled percentage of the Pie Chart?

Since you have gone and left me without land
There are rigorous piggybacks through the desert
Then like Jonah I walk the belly of the sea, I repeat
But Nwanna I believe I can fly the kit
You are my father, my uncle, my kinsman
If you should see me now Nna-anyi

I am in your Switzerland!
There is something here for everybody alright
The weather is very cold as if my heart is dead

Hey! but here is to you my Ruler
I am now a toilet cleaner
Exorcitio te! Ex crucien Domini!

Oh, your friend kept his word my friend
He's had your story cast with plated cowries
Then they all picked with light-fingers of gold
One finger soiling five of old
And the wreath of spikes held gingerly close
Ready to impale the honourable Head stone

Please do mind how apt you must leave
They are not blowing any hailing trumpet
They are not laying any red carpet
All your friends are locked in your room
Sweeping the spoils of your rites with sieveless broom
All done in muted cant with sleight of hand

I am standing outside your door Lost of Wand

Ejiofor Alisigwe/ Imo State

London England

02/05/2006

Posted by Administrator at June 23, 2006 07:52 AM

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