Poetry Archives from Nigeria Magazine, 1970

FAREWELL TO MY KINGDOM
or
A KING’S LAMENTATION

JACOB E. OBASEKI

HYMN TO THE ANCIENT CITY OF BENIN

Hail renowned City, who with deed surpassed all
So countless warriors defeated, before the City to fall
Amidst Afric race, fearless heroes produce
In every combat, shame to opponents reduce
Still envied remains, but to the glory of past
Pound still are gods, who lots of battle forecast
Tried shameless ruin, changing times of history
Those time tested customs, so the ageless story.

JACOB OBASEKI

ANNIVERSARY

This dreary
anniversary
wakes me
to repeat
the stale tale
of five cycles
and riddles
of eternity;

am a sentry
counting out
misery in
grains of sand:

when our yesterdays
are epitaphs
and tomorrows
unexecuted wills
thrills and drills,
and life a long
and drab ballad
of wrinkled days,
let the sexton
toll the sullen bells
for a cold
anniversary.

SAMUEL ASIN

REBIRTH

When night comes,
Though some ply
It’s giddy heights
Others their heads
Laid to rest
To be reborn
On the morrow
Fresh with ardour
Strong for a new day;
With sinew bright
And ardour strong
The new day is embraced.

USIOBAIFO EWEKA

---

TOWNCRIER

Crier that i am
railing the prime
and cursing the ultimate
i stand like pebble
sitting on the carpet of the ocean
washed and littled by
the brush of the current.
i sink to rise and rise
to sink wailing for all
but hushed by them
for whom i plaint
crier that i am
my cries sicken my ears
and, for a season, i resolve
to cry no more….

’DILE OGUNDIMU

SAY IT LOUD — I LOVE ADIRE

The cheapest and most durable
Fascinating and Conspicuous
Typically designed for us locally
Say it Loud — I love Adire.
Locally made in the tropics
For the use of tropical people
Whose vast majority lives in the tropics
Say it loud — I’m black with Adire
Different styles could be cut
Like it Kampala prefer it ija-Ore
Love it Jalekun or in Bonfo
Say it Loud — Adire is beautiful
Adire fadeth never
Continue to wear the beauty of Adire
And the joys of home-made cloths
Why not say it Loud—We all love Adire

WOLE OYEBAMIJI

THE TALKING DRUMMER

From your shoulder hangs
The magic that talks the tales
And sings the tonic solfa
A cylinder with delicate animal skin
Of distinguished fashion
That makes the double face
And well treated leather strings
That clothe the carved wood
The expert hand holds
The cornered cudgel of flat
Button top that tortures
The drum to talk the tales
And sings the do-re-me
And to aid, the other hand
Squeezes the leather strings
Which regulate the tone and sound.
This happy artist in his glorious task
Rocking up and down, left and right
With bended knee and grinning smiles
And sweat training down his body
As he makes his magic talk a word
That forced a smile out of me;
’Twas my name
The drum sounded with a proverb

OLU OBASEKI

EYELASHES

(for Lovett)

All around I see the faces of Eve
adorned to the craft of the artist.
I see them put on smiles and cull
out eyes like watersnails, looking
not at faces but on the ground as if
to say “We want to go unnoticed”
yet wanting to be noticed.
I screen through these faces and look
beyond the craft of the artist;
I see native smiles struggling
beneath layers of lipstick and cheeks
peeping through films of oil and powder,
whispering tenderly “We want
no covering for our desires.” So, so
Baby, I cherish not the craft of face-painting
or smearing lips like Efik carvings.
No. I want no exhibits on my lips
when in innocence they touch yours.
Not that I love to go unnoticed, but,
but why a ransom on the lips
when your eyelashes speak to me?

O. Wonodi

MOTIVE

the doors are open all day
you may climb in at night
through the window when
the night-watch is asleep

you may walk in by the door
at noon when the shopkeeper
is smiling to customers and
plain-clothes watch your moves

the doors are open all day
and whether you enter at night
through the window or by the door
at noon you know your motives

O. WONODI

PRESCRIPTION

The fire which sizzled the haze of myth, burns the
legend
Burns the prided palm: which taps the wine of
tradition
The enemy of our history.

The fire which carpeted this land, on the leasing of her
freehold
Destroys the nursing womb: which breeds her
young
A land faded from the past.

The bullet which shattered the range of her long history
Triggers the unholy noise: which tries her prop of
wisdom
She clowns fouling her gratitude.

And the airs of hope frequent hang on to the tinkle
Call calms and breaks, and her appetites remember
Once she fed on sour palm.

The palm which is the emblem is gentle and kinder,
not the kernels
Fierce and tense: and hopes become a burden
By the wine you taste in the pub.

DAN AWODOYE

OMO-TUNTUN (NEW BORN BABY)

Here I come
Into this world
A stranger
The mystery of this place
I know not
The sweetness and bitterness
To me are new
Oh! ‘Olodumare’, I pray
For protection, through
This vast ocean
In search of progress and greatness

’SANMI-EBORA OGUNJOBI

1. We are the few survivors here
   To bury our dead
   We are
   The few survivors left
   To walk
   Between the ashes and the crumbling walls.

3. Lie quiet until you plume
Like the eagle in bluesky
Skimming best of air and sunlight
In the cool of after rains.

4. Failing strength and fading light
Faint light
Sad heart
Rude bruises from vain hopes
Poor ruins.

5. And the wind was gone
Carrying her jewels
See her
Gathering her hair
Mourning.

SAM ONWUKA

A SONG FOR ARO

I

okro of mine i plant
my maize in the farm blooms
goat of Aro the okro eats
with maize Aro’s ewe its hunger slakes.
ask him me what i do wrong!

II

goat that visits Aro
commutes with the gullet
sheep that knocks Aro’s door
the vanishing trick elects.

III

Aro,
  husband of the town
  the towncrier’s terror
  shooed behind, he shoes the front
  rodent in the rich man’s house
  scourge of the penniless.

’DELE OGUNDIMU

ALL LENGTH IS TORTURE

I began without seeking to find
 Ease comfort and worldly pleasures
But when they come by measures
I began to revel with an easy mind
In what greed and avarice unbind
To let loose what my yearnings bred.
I had hoped in vain to tread
 A true path and mind the slope
But vanity and worldliness flanged my scope
And I knew not where I was led;
 Every step led me to a giddy height
With every fellow traveller a foe
 As my yearnings sowed their plight—
I never thought the fare would be so:
I have learnt my woes to disclose
 And only death will give me repose.

U. EWEKA

AGBADO

Sweet Agbado
Loveliest fruit of the rainy season
Strictly loved by young and old
The joys of southerners
The happiness of northerners.

Come a field of Corn
How often do I love to see you come
The green, oblong leaves
Arranged oppositely
Are all inviting features.

Some love it boiled
Others prefer it toasted
Only one for penny
Young and old surge round the sellers
Let’s eat the joys and happiness in Agbado.

WOLE OYEBAMIJI

FAREWELL TO CITY OF MOATS

Through the ages fame still resound
In thy ancient spot enviable things lie around
So earlier vowed, from city would never part
Still by foreigners envied, thy famous ageless art
Oh enviable seat of once mighty kingdom
So peaceful ruled by kings rich in wisdom
Ever restless were subjects that stood thy defence
But long ageless stood that wall like fence
By thy sand at birth first to greet
Of such still in thy aged street
Like giants thy untutored carvers stood
In all Afric race none ever withstand stood,
Great were thy famous heroes of war
Who first survey events when still afar
Still dreadful to foreigners is thy ancient moats
Like ocean mariners would try sail with boat
How glorious is thy festive day
Enviable was thy founders way.

JACOB E. OBASEKI

FOR MOTHER

Nene … the shadows are overgrown
this afternoon in my heart;
the burden of uncertainties assail me
with a feckless ravish—

I do not know whether to cry or laugh.

Each day saps me dry
of the red-green that you gave me
in ellipses of hope
to halo my dreams.

Mother, the weal
of your chalked-hand slap
tattoos my soul: your wish
that the phallic truth of my being
should sprout out of the smokes
that house it now.

But I am not at peace
with the flutter of selves
that dog my inside
—hiding in banana skins
—in the grief of many unknown things,
I am out of boat with my paddle,
… no one should owe me tears

I want to catapult my love
to you… through these thwarting gales
that toss my dreams to tatters. I want
to pay back in words
the wry story of the smile
that you glutted my lips with.
(Pardon me, if my sea is too shallow)

I wish I could re-live the sky
of my time of regrets
by giving you joy.

ODIA OFEIMUN

DRY SEASON

The dry-plain North
belches
and everyone becomes
her pet
to powder

The free-flour wind
a dust merchant
tumbles
in the throat
feeding the fed

She convulses and vomits
and bumps
in to the master
or the servant
she knows no rank

Her last feast of
cheap dust
leaves on her path
a stranger victim on
flying visit

And when you do come over
remember,
she’s there ready to
feast you to freemeals
in the dry season.

DAN AWODOYE

DESIRE

I desire not to be poor
Nor hope to be rich
But in all my endeavour
Let me be pleased

What I desire most
Is to know the law
Not regarding it as a joke
But embracing it with love.

C. ’TUNDE LADIPO

ARBOUR DAYS

During the month of May,
All the days are arbour days
Drilled to the foresters’ sway
In all we know are his ways.

From the nurseries to the farms
The crops have tender handling,
And woe-be-tide he who harms
The tender roots of a sapling.

With the tenderest care the saplings
Are planted in their well dug holes —
And the planters proud with ardent feelings
The plants will be healthy without whorls.

When all day drizzling rain followed
Alternating sunshine they muse with delight
What the elements in approval hallowed
To promote success without the least plight.

U. EWEKA

‘HALF-A-WORD’

I’ll tell you ‘half-a-word’
which the elders say
Is enough for the wise
For when
It is digested
It becomes full whole

Now,
In that your place
Where sour is given for sweet
Sincerity lacks foundation
‘Give-and-take’ seek admirers
I say
  Your conscience
  Is the real judge

Here,
 my ‘half-a-word’

’SANMI-EBORA OGUNJOBI

THIS VAST WILDERNESS OF LIFE

Man moves about in a world
That is not his own
And revels in abysmal ignorance;
He gropes his way about,
Stumbling at various points;
But still he tries to find his way
 In this vast wilderness of Life.

He knows not what he wants—
No vague idea whatsoever;
He sees but does not appreciate,
He hears but does not understand;
He hears so many voices in his inner self
But knows not which one to obey
 In this vast wilderness of Life.

He knows, yet he does not know,
He is happy, yet he is sad,
He is a success, yet a failure;
But still he moves doggedly along;
Oh! when will Man learn
To pick his way with ease
 In this vast wilderness of Life.

CHRIS. AWONUGA

IGBEKOYI (REOCCURRING CHILD)

Often have you come
Deceiving the World
That it will be to stay
Like a good child under her mother’s care
But all in a sudden
You do disappear
Now, Your yearly burial
Has to end
And you have to stay
Because
 “Igbekoyi” (even the bush refuses this)

’SANMI-EBORA OGUNJOBI

SILENT PASSION

The springs
  well out waterdrops;
drops from the sky
  measure the hours
of your undue discretion, hours
lost between contending thoughts.
And I that brought amulets
stimulated for a dance of nerves
stay your many moods
  and the silence of passions
unspent, slips through
  rubbing and caressing
far-flung desires back to life
like bubbles on watersurface
ending at vacant shores.

My passions
  stay in the lay suburbs
of your thoughts
    and you stay my lips
and fingers because I do not
curse; because I do not
pine, pant and swear dreams undreamt
or like schoolboys howl
love songs and saltless tears into
the salt waters of Port Harcourt harbour.

O Lady love!
  Age, sober age, has washed
the valleys dry;
  only the hard rock of desire
is left of youthful ebullience.

(for Sue)

O. WONODI

SLEEP OF INNOCENCE

Another hawk tears through the womb
of the night—
  gruesome go-crash
of a million souls
in the speech of automation,
the thrust of a monster-thought
jolting your sleep;

Comes oppressive silence,
convulsing the selves in wild sensations
of prostrate-innocence, guilt.

Mooning love, do not wake
in this filthied hour of soot;
don’t stir to share in the burdening swoop
of insomnia raping my being;
—let me alone in my choking helpless rage
WEep MY LAND.

ODIA OFEIMUN

“POOL-GAME NA WA”

(Written Pidgin English)

Oh! which kan blow bin this
Four Pounds don go this week again
E no include that one
Wey I pay on banker

“Arsenal Ah! Failing to draw”
Tottenham “Sure banker”
Liverpool “Oh E no draw”
Wessex “Yes he enter”
Two out of four draws
But na perm three out of four
I banker
So man lose again
And ‘pay-day’ still na next week
How I go chop? “Na Wa”

’SANMI-EBORA OGUNJOBI

NEW-LIVING

Hopping on light feet over twigs over hoes, stretching
To the wharf I will go from.
AH! Hastening as if pursued, hunted by the wiles.

The sound of laughter
Across the hilltop
The distant resonance of drumbeats ever receding

I come in all fury
Following the signature
Picking from the heap, time burnished relics.

New-living. What then is there?

A manifestation of new desires?
Vision of wider seas meeting the sky’s end.

The itch is great while the others go
The itch is great
While the others go, splashing saltwater on a bank-reed.

SAM ONWUKA

BIRDS

On a stroll along the avenue
The time is exactly noon
And above in the sky
Birds of the same feather
All flock together

When the day is fine
I always watch the time
To behold their sight
Which is just bright

Birds of the sky
Of no definite course
They continue to fly
Until they are caught

C. ’TUNDE LADIPO

NO EASY ROOST

Home, a flight of boulders
re-enacting the dire and ferment
of rhythms from which
you have always sought escape;

—the sadness of slouching mothernaked
in the rain of your muzzled wishes—
          home;

Where, in the dark reaches
of a past-drenched will,
you find a motive for counting the stars;
you write a psalm of untrod futures:
“let these grains earthed in sundowns
sprout in the morning, virile and fruitful,

“And these pains, this aura
of impertinent failures encroaching on lives,
lives, that have floundered in ovens
of incessant strivings, O Fire
realize the defeated in the victory
of their offsprings.”

ODIA OFEIMUN

AFRICA SHALL SING AGAIN

Gradually
Like a slow kindling log
A tree trunk
Raising slowly, unwillingly
Fire
For the harmattan.

We had waited like the maimed
Waited and had waited to the brink
To the moment of despair
And all seemed failing
To break
The chill of harmattan.

SAM ONWUKA

CREATIVE PROCESS

Scented ideas floating
in the mind’s suspension
court my soul

like an evasive lady
on a first appointment
with love.

Mosaic of hued ideas
tender-lipped words
sink and float,

weights and balances
of flagellating concepts
like sperms

dazzling vanishing points
of intermittent illuminations
of glow worms;

faint suggestions and rejections
the ravished mind
in ecstasy;

possessed of tangled notions
and messages sieved
into shapes:

records of the poet’s mind
the poetry of ideas
which is the poem.

SAMUEL ASEIN

Source: Archiving (Nigeria Magazine, Sunday, March 1, 1970)