WE, THE INDEPENDENT ONES

We are they that ride on the waves,
Of ideas, beautiful manifestos of the 50s,
The very spittle that our mother told us if dried before the 60s,
Our navels would rot,

We are the child born in lies,
A fatherless child of 250 fathers,
A child that reminds our mother of this rape called amalgamation,
The child who is half of everything,
Whose strength should be in being everything,
Yet one thing rules: the cancer of corruption,

We are this child in dependence,
To the blind, senseless man that knew how we were delivered from,
This very deep inferno between our mother’s leg,
We encourage ourselves with hopes in things,
Things our reality tells us can never be,
We are married to Religion,
These new Masters that promise us mansions and virgins when we,
Like the worms, cringe and bow out of this stage,

We are hungry,
Milk and honey we dare not wish for,
Our elder brothers eat honey,
They told us to pray,
If we dared stared too long into his plate, he would slay,
The nascent dream we have,

We are independent,
Masters of our own,
Slaves to our elder brothers,
Who constantly tell us that the rudders will be ours one day,
Yet make their sons our master when,
Need be…..
Happy Independence Day.

Chukwu Simeon Chidiebere
© 2018

Advertisements

Our Love

Our love tale started like soaking cannabis in hot water. I took a sip. You did likewise. The sole of our feet got baptised in this fever that got our tummies beating the African drums. We looked each other in the eyes, we found dark universe surrounded by a red sea. We could see what love is all about; two heads that one is better than. We felt like screaming but the fear that the onlookers would tag us mad forced us into each other’s arm.

You could hear my heart beating. It was not the Jazz you love. My heart made music, the kind Mozart made. You said it made you dull. But that was my whole life. I tried to let my eyes speak volumes of poetry anthologies but all you heard was words poorly knitted. You smiled. Not the type of smile you decorated the sky with the first day I stood before you as a stuttering child, fearful but determined to let you know that butterflies only visit your garden.

I prayed we never recovered from this euphoria. This state of having the moon constantly using our name in the lullaby it is singing. I told of the symphonies composed by the crickets and frogs ( hiding in the near by bush) in our favour. You said I was silly. Not that kind of silly. You meant that I stole your heart with my madness. I was happy. At least, someone has finally got me in the list of men who parade the face of earth with careless abandon of what lips would say. You were the earthquake my soul yearned for.

That was when you told me of a fairy land. I was the ragged prince and you the princess living in a mansion of a castle. You told me that I was the male Cinderella. I agreed. You made me to be born again. It is no metaphor. You turned me to a suckling praying that I will forever remain at your breast…

(C) Symolean

Our love

Our love tale started like soaking cannabis in hot water. I took a sip. You did likewise. The sole of our feet got baptised in this fever that got our tummies beating the African drums. We looked each other in the eyes, we found dark universe surrounded by a red sea. We could see what love is all about; two heads that one is better than. We felt like screaming but the fear that the onlookers would tag us mad forced us into each other’s arm.

You could hear my heart beating. It was not the Jazz you love. My heart made music, the kind Mozart made. You said it made you dull. But that was my whole life. I tried to let my eyes speak volumes of poetry anthologies but all you heard was words poorly knitted. You smiled. Not the type of smile you decorated the sky with the first day I stood before you as a stuttering child, fearful but determined to let you know that butterflies only visits your garden.

I prayed we never recovered from this euphoria. This state of having the moon constantly using our name in the lullaby it is singing. I told of the symphonies composed by the crickets and frogs ( hiding in the near by bush) in our favour. You said I was silly. Not that kind of silly. You meant that I stole your heart with my madness. I was happy. At least, someone has finally got me in the list of men who parade the face of earth with careless abandon of what lips would say. You were the earthquake my soul yearned for.

That was when you told me of a fairy land. I was the ragged prince and you the princess living in a mansion of a castle. You told me that I was the male Cinderella. I agreed. You made me to be born again. It is no metaphor. You turned me to a suckling praying that I will forever remain at your breast…

Simeon Chidi

(c) 2018

CHRONOMETRY IN STANZAS ONE

Before Evening, Eve ate the forbidden fresh fruit
Adam had sauntered smiling straight into the beautiful blessed garden
Listening to the sound silence could never had made
He felt at home and free riding of the elephant, boxing with the monkeys, racing through thickets with cheetah.

Eve must have felt lonesome all by herself without him or God
Animals were no perfect part of her
She needed one to hear her voice, feel her very deep void
And then fill her in with gusts of things that happened before the Master took her from Adam

Wiles had pitched it’s tent in the heart of the serpent
It wanted all to crawl ceaselessly like him
So, it made a tale to suit Eve’s curiosity.
It asked the million dollar question
Eve in her naivety answered
And before she could see the insensibility of her act, she wandered like the wind away from the Truth

By noon, Adam was tired of eating wild berries,
Home became a destination he hungered for like water
He remembered the promise he made Eve to eat fruits with her and his heart started glowing with expectations.
He had had taste of many a fruit in the garden, his eyes had eaten of them all
But his tongue was yet to testify of the new taste Eve would have him have.

Eve brought the fruit clothed beauty
He knew it came from the centre, the very fruit Master said brings death
He asked a question on what had birthed the madness
And Eve gave him a lecture so sweet, sweeping his decisions of long ago like the dust
He tried to mention the Master’s instruction and got an answer
The type of answer that leaves one wondering why one was not able to see deception
As plain as dry sky in the acts of the Master.
So, from Eve’s eager hands, hastily, he eat
Complimenting on the taste and the new feeling
He knew not how he had lead his progeny to a fall.

The Master came when the sun had started its movement back home
He called on Adam, the man that had hidden behind Eve in the Banana plantation
There was no answer except for the parrot’s unsolicited information
He walked straight laughing, “maybe Adam has started playing pranks”.
He was wrong, Adam had learnt to fear him, not reverentially
The Master is now an evil force to him.

“Man, where are you hiding, have host of lessons to share this evening,
Hiding will kill our time”, the Master said
“Your voice made my heart feel cold like a fowl in the tormenting winter”, Adam’s voice echoed
The Master raised his brows in askance,
“Ate thou the forbidden fruit?”
“Eve, the trouble you bestowed me with gave me”
And then, everything changed
Garments received their own life and human work lost its fun nature, work became a struggle
Birth process became a pain
First class enmity was created between the Serpent and Woman’s Child.
Adam lost the jolly times he once enjoyed with the supreme
But the Master kept working on bridging the divide between Himself and mortality
Men felt wiser and walked more into depravity,
God was wounded, but he never wiped men away

Simeon Chidi

(c) 2018

Letter to the Boy

Being single could make one appear socially awkward, especially, when you get to 24. People would ask a lot of why questions and before you know it, you are out of perfect replies. It could be maddening, you know? Especially, when they see you converse with a pretty lady, then start with their 1000 rule advice on how to win her over, as though you had asked their counsel on how to get a “bae”. It could be ridiculous too, when a lady tells you, “upon all this your sweet mouth, you dey claim say you no get babe”, as though being a good talker is all you need in order to be in a relationship. dat one no too dey pain me. I get more annoyed when fellas try to point out a girl for me just because she has the kind of hips that are very close relatives of Abakiliki mounds and breasts that are large enough to suffocate a toddler. And on more occasions, a complexion that is characterized of an over ripped pawpaw. They would just shout “wow” like Jesus Christ got born again… I know you got the juicy part of such tales in your head.

Then, if you are not careful, you would settle for the glaze on the utensil without considering the type of material it is made of. That’s me waving a “welcome to Hell Street”, because, all you will ever dream of is, an exit strategy from this business that you entered into without much consideration. You know how you just end up scheming on ways to get her hyper pissed off with you and end up asking you for a break up, but when it fails, you start rehearsal of your 360-word break up line. And when finally you are done with the inscription on her heart, she starts seeing all boys, guys, and men, (forgive the redundancy), as an evil she have to live with. However, because emotions still run through her veins, if no one wise enough is close by to advise her rightly, she becomes a formidable heart basher, who only cares about your little change, in an exchange for the toy of herself, remember you made her to start feeling like a toy.

The Gardener

​The flowers stylishly laid on it’s bed in patterns of colours, in their different shades which makes you feel that you are actually in the paradise called Eden, was one of the things that made him to take gardening as his new found love. He would be content to water those flowers every blessed morning he wakes up and prune them to maintain this picturesque view, and should weed try to compete for the manure he would religiously feed the flowers with, he would make sure that they don’t live to share their experience with any other. He promised himself not to live and see any of the flowers wither and even when he would get choked up with activities to the extent that he would not have time enough to pray for himself, he would still pray that this article that has so much enchanted him would remain the food for the eyes of all that would one day come across this great work spot of his. He never saw the drudgery of routine associated with such work as

a threat to the hope he had built, he didn’t even think of drought season as a challenge and a fight he would still fight to keep his cherished plants alive. In his schedule was no time for feeding and rest, he never envisaged health challenges as one of the things that would stand  between him and his flowers and of course, people’s opinion of him would be the least in the ladder of things that would dissuade him from being a humble flower lover or gardener in a more common parlance but that was all an assumption that failed to stand the test of time. He was found sinking, distracted, angered even by the unresponsiveness of some species of flowers that had overgrown their lifespan and withered even though he did all he could to keep them in his garden for just a little longer. He could still remember how he killed some of his flowers in the bid to help them reach greater level of growth through wrong method of fertilizer application and it got him miles away from the hope he once  rode on. He saw all these metamorphosis take place and that’s what actually turned him to this great gardener he now is

​Where Are The Others?

Once was a man on earth, a God.
He made half score whole, nine left,

Hiding under vintage point to predate like tods.

But one came back, his heart heft

In appreciation of the man that made him whole

The man fixed a gaze on him like a hawk,

Then asked of the other nine that once had holes.

One replied that he had an empty space to gawp

The nine enjoyed a sail guided by a faulty compass with fingers apart,

Under the influence of a zephyr, pointing to Utopia.

They sat to debate the man and his demon; reached impasse

In the analysis of how the man is a king of Dystopia

They failed to see that they too were wrapped in weakness

And showed the man no kindness