The Year He died

The Year He died

It rained the year he died
Big drops
From God’s eyes
Up in the skies

I slept the year he died
Strange dreams
No seams
Running together like cloth reams village streams

I drove the year he died
Lagos, Ibadan, Ilesha
Four wheels
Petrol Bills

I laughed the year he died
No memories why
Strange looks
Many moods and song hooks

I cried the year he died
I wonder why
I died the year he died
They wondered why

I lived the year he died
Words, whispers
Remembrance, hope, solitude, multitude
Heaven – gratitude

 

19:30pm 22/05/2013

Nothing Changes

Nothing Changes

Time passes. Nothing changes. Nothing remains the same.

I parked in front of the the health center  I walked to Awo hall. Past the Porters lodge at the entrance. I passed in front of the old meals hall. Where students probably sat two to a table to have their meals: that died way before my time. I went down the walkways towards block two. Students passed by: I could be one of them.
Cloths spread out on the fields to dry. Students reading. Students doing their washing. Students playing football in the field between the 2-story hostel blocks two and three.
I remember once when people tried as much as possible not to walk through that field, it was OK as long as you didn’t stray from the tiny winding path that runs through the field. Because in the overgrown bits lay mangled remains of decades of destruction, everything broken and rusted: beds, chairs, bottles, plastics, etc.
One wrong step and you are off to the Medical Center.
Then one idle Saturday the students decided to fix up the field for football. I had thought it was an impossible fit, but the spirit of the game came over them. They couldn’t have worked harder if they were paid. All that day they laboured to move the junk and tip it over the fence behind the hall.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The old empty tiled fountain place is still there.
I was here that night when they (Black Axe) came for “Afrika” (the student union Sec. Gen.). The immediate artificial blackout once students realised what was going on. The shots. Come morning 5 students lay dead.
I crossed the open space and went under hostel block 7. “Tope” lived there I remembered.
I entered the meals hall. A few heads turned in my direction. Maybe it is the echo of my heels on the terrazzo floor. Maybe not.
I walked randomly to a table and sat diagonally across from some guy reading his “hand out” and making notes in an exercise book.

I put my phone on silent. No mobiles when I was a student. Is there a rule against phones ringing in the reading room? How is it enforced?
I put my phone on silent.
I write this.
The “Man-o-War” group jogs past outside on the road towards Mozambique. Blowing whistles and singing songs. Some will be brilliant enough to juggle extracurricular activities with their studies and still make good grades; most will barely make a passing grade. Some will fail.

Time passes. Nothing changes. Nothing remains the same.

I drove to the Sports Complex.
An Olympic sized swimming pool is in place. The supporting structures are under construction.
I used to go watch the body builders do their thing. The place seems locked.
I am on the concrete walkway that separates the main field from the several fenced courts for various other games.

There are groups of students. Various little groups. Evangelising. Fellowshiping.
A lady walked to and fro in one of the fenced courts. She is praying probably in tongues.

I listened in on one of the groups. The speaker says “Keep praying. God wants to see your perseverance.” He used Daniel as an illustration.

“The Realist” is otherwise engaged. I should be going.

The praying lady has disappeared. Replaced by many more groups in different enclosed areas. One man lies down on the hard tarmac face down with his head in his hands. One holds on to the chain linked fence. Three guys pray in a tight group. Some girls walk up carrying musical instruments.
Several fellowships will hold this evening (as usual) I think. More people are showing up with Bibles and walking past.

One group is using one of the covered arenas. They have a VIP table (for the event anchors I think) with a couple of people. Girls are always more spiritual than boys. Most of the group are girls: possibly 45 of the 60 or so people.
It’s time to go.
Seventy-seven kilometers of the wide open road are ahead of me.

If she is happy, then it is OK. That’s all that matters. My sins might not be forgiven nor forgotten, but they shouldn’t matter as much.

Time passes. Nothing changes. Nothing remains the same.

Nothing changes.

DSCF8249 DSCF8250 DSCF8252 DSCF8251

Monday

“Wicked” – “You are wicked.”
Three little words, the longest no more than 6 characters. Combined, the sum of all hope – dashed.

“Time” – I have asked Chronos to raise his hand,
and still the tempest that is time matching on,
sweeping all and sundry before its unseen fury,
and leaving broken limbs and sorrowful hearts in its churning wake.

“Wish” – I have begged Chronos to roll back time
till just before anger wrapped its unreasoning fingers round my delicate brain,
costing me what I had not lost because I did not own,
but sought by words, deeds,
and a certain look in my eyes that I didn’t see
but neither did you till I had wasted 2 months and lost it all.

“Chronos” – But Chronos is the figment of fearful men’s imagination,
who knowing not hat to do with the vagaries of nature,
ascribed power to chimeric figureheads in order to still beating hearts near bursting point.

“Pray” – So I turned to God and prayed,
asking for a miracle of gargantuan girt.
“Selfish request! Pharaoh’s bones long since dissolved to nutrients beneath Jordan’s waves! Does God still harden mortal men’s hearts or soften them because of prayers raised by earthly beings?” screamed the “devil”,
whose name should be spelled in subscript letters to dishonour his base nature, vile and to be reviled till hell freezes over.

“Alas!” – he was right.
Would a mere mortal command God to put love in another’s heart?
Would God deign it fit to answer such a prayer were it said upon bended knees
rubbed raw by rough-edged stones
coated in amber fluidly flowing carrying plasma to replenish the patched earth beneath the scorching Sun?

“Monday” – just like any other day …
But wait! A chance to think less those thoughts
that weigh like leaden weights on burdened brain
and rob the eyes of peaceful sleep.
Monday. Tuesday. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. Saturday. Sunday. Who cares.
Not the man who just lost the family’s food to the one-armed bandit down the road while seeking 3 cherries that unleashes the flood of unlimited income.
Not the fellow dying slowly on the bridge over the River Kwai.
Not the man you smile at.

“Monday” – Just another dreary day in an endless sequence of days in weeks in months in years in wandering the featureless desert of hopelessness by lost souls seeking forgiveness and deliverance where none may be found. Monday.

A Greek evening

A Greek evening

Tis early eve
Thor’s hammer crashes overhead
Loki is playing with the lights
The Autumn leaves are fallen
They swirl softly beneath my feet
I see nothing.

My thoughts have taken wings
to roam the sky
in the fast approaching dusk
I think of you;
of beauty;
of God wielding the artist’s brush

Am I in your dreams?

27/07/2002 00:43AM (midnight – sad that history is repeating itself)

The Hitman

The Hitman

I paid the hitman yesterday
Though his price was steep
I gladly paid
For what I wanted done
Few could do

I paid the hitman yesterday
I went to his temple
But would not bow the knee
Nor bend the neck
For though people thought him god
He was not my God

I paid the hitman yesterday
I almost doubted
His weapons were quaint
Shiny like toys
And small in form

I paid the hitman yesterday
I asked his name
For though I knew
I was told his voice was music to the ears
“Cupid” he said, with a smile on his lips

Cupid is dead

Cupid is dead

I prayed to the God of love
And worshipped his middling form
I did not care that he looked like a grownup babe
And cavorted with nymphs in nothing but his very skin

What I wanted done, I thought only he could do
He failed me at every turn
Worse, he laughed loud at my every loss
And told a hundred jokes at my sorry face

So I tricked his curly head
Wrestled his puny arrow from his stubby grip
And dipping it in the dragon’s blood
I stuck it in his ugly heart
I waited till he bled no more
Then burnt his godless form
And scattering his ashes to the winds, I told Zeus to kiss my ass

So if you find you cannot fall in love
Or love finds you not, no matter how hard you try
Do not blame Cupid (no longer the god of love)
Because I killed him dead

Dead I said.

(06/08/2012 – 1:21AM)

The Good Doctor: 2 years on

The Good Doctor: 2 years on

It is of course 2 years ago today when the good doctor took his leave.

I must admit the complete piece to which the following poem belonged was long and rambling, so I am only posting the poem here.

Father, your work is done
You have laid down the axe, the hoe and the surgeon’s blade
Now with keen eyes, steady hands and fingers sure, strum your guitar with the hosts of heaven

On quiet days when my task is done
Under a tree’s leafy shade
I will catch the strains of the music you make and bless the God of heaven

And when I too am done
And exit this worldly glade
I pray we meet again with kith and kin in God’s blessed heaven