Category Archives: Contemporary Poetry

Singing in Thongs


He’ meant to go to bed at eight, this child

so that he’ll not fall victim

to stray bullets

from  teevee shots meant for  the benighted.

And this is eight, nightingale morning’s eight

and the teevee screens are agog

with an armada of rotating bots

claiming descent from  singing lips,

some bare

some clad in pretence thongs

a lobe to the right

a lobe to the left

and  the holidaying child is in the dock

facing a booby-traps of questions

from the female anatomy,

not on it.



I’ m god


  • (For the Bleeding at home, in London and in other lands)

I‘m god

I’m Mobutu Sese Seko

Nkuku Ngbendu Wa Za Banga

you must pronounce my name in full, else you breach

my democratic rights

I’m the herr to the fuehrer’s reich

Ich spreche in diktat

You must pronounce my name in full

or go the way of all heretics

I speak not yet of infidels.

I’m god.

I’m baban bajimi Sani Abacha

ka chi bura ubanka in  ka manta suna na

the one for whom the sun-and-moon had to stand still

so he  could  distance himself  far enough

from the cashless society

you must pronounce me pious

to avert a fate of pregnant  fatwahs.

I’m god.

I’m  the blurb of intoxicant books

the blade of  ethnic  bigot fans

the razor end of all reason, marching

like nitwit armies to the beat of Beethoven,

along the  icing on caking cliffs

I’m god.

It is the season of recompense, and

I have followed the slime of the slug around the homestead.

I have tested the axe head of the hurricane

I have peeped at sacred groves where

men have drunk  and hung their gourds

I have searched the thatch hats

atop the huts trodden out by the muddy feet of men

But I have found none

of the hunters who did their  target practice

on the softest undersides of diaper-ed babies

I have found none

of the signatories on the cheques of  bleeding cities

none of the source rocks of the flow of red Thames

I’m god.

I have searched the password hunting limits

of wikileaks’ idealisms. Today’s gatsbys surfing

on foamy peaks of romanticism

topless riders on freedom trains

stopless past the very last busstop

on the bigot’s expedition

to perdition

I’m god.

But those were the udder days that breastfed today

now I’m a mere clothes line

on which men maim and hang their horrors

But google them you find the hidden knives.



The chief priest and a nay-tion’s infidelities

When the infidelities of this nay-tion  are told to salivating  divorce lawyers

when the long chaplets and masking hijabs are finally  unmasked

when  dizzying digits seized

or said to have been seized

in sleaze cash haul of shame,

still leave  lacunae of grains and couscous in dinner tables,

when  the lava of long celibate stomachs

suddenly erupts,  without the funfair of lightning

when the chief  priest comes with his ofo-n’ogu

a vengeful scalpel piercing the resistance of thick-skinned maladies

when  he takes in the visual gauntlet of saturated farts

spreading like the coily hide-and-smoke of illicit hemp

as you hear the chief priest’s s broken voice

may your own voice not then be found

to have been silent.


grammar joke 3


W A L L S.

From the birth pangs of the first farting man

to the last drop of his kin’s dust-to-dusts,

walls have served only to buy time

but even the hours of ‘dying minutes’ extracted from complicit refs

have been nothing but fading embers of false dawns

light years away from their architects’ wet dreams:

dreams on glossy paper

like sleek sketches of galloping thoroughbreds,

reined in by dark fears walking on all fours

festering, like the ferns of graffiti

that separated East and West Berlin


if Jericho could capitulate at the echoes of a mere shout

What  was the wisdom of the stone walls?

The plot of hydrogen sulphide that leaked out of the anus

with émigré-emitting consequences

was actually hatched inside the stomach walls

walls fed with rotten remnants of sacrificial egg,

left uneaten at crossroads by satiated gods


Walls. We have seen roundtable conferees make their points in implacable knuckles,

In battle cries of clenched teeth

we have seen graphics of Power-

point presentations of live jugulars

populating pages of pathos.

It is that weather again,

of wind-aided insights into fowl anus revelations,

of cracks in walls touted maximum


Walls.   Cracking now like the spirits of albumens when yolks have already been

readied for omelets.  So much for impregnable defences, of egg shells.


The bend of Beckham’s ball beat a mollusk whorls closeness of stonewalls

walls. Many saw it but not the handwriting on the

walls. Not the moral of the mural

now staring Nebuchadnezzar’s scions in the face

like warning teasers from the midday sun.

When rams are on heat – the rams embedded inside the denseness of the sun

who can count the colours of their bleating lenses at noon?

Who would have thought that the deli of Delilah termites

packed enough seismic ammo

to expose the underbelly of Samson’s granite cast

for what it really was –

red mud

Walls. They that build walls

make geckos of men.

you could comb the farthest forests

of walled history

with a tour guide of Wollof dancers

pointing with their rising nipples to the curve of fallen civilizations,

you can listen to the lament of the cremator

as wayward winds stake claims

to the recycling rights of his own cremation dust

you can study history

from hieroglyphs to hash tags of in-vogue memes

you will not find sturdier grounds for walls

than the ego of the emperor.

Continue reading

Deluded Angels

Deluded Angels

[They rained down on Southern Kaduna]


Usually, skeletons would scurry, away

like drenched rats whenever gluttony

struts the runway

but here

it is not so

for the gluttons here

feed on manflesh

and leave the skeletons to tip the scales of infamy


The tooth fillers were chased away

now gangs with fangs

are playing dentists

pulling milk teeth

to line the routes of their boulevards,


as breeders of hate try

to teach the devil himself a few new tricks

in southern Kaduna drain


We saw it when Typhoon ‘Anopheles’ struck

leaving a Santa generosity of proboscis

to siphon the flow of redness                                                                                                                                   that once bound all humanity

now they are humming with marrowless humerus,

in their private museums.

This is no code

it’s what is left of their foes

after the flesh is fleeced:

their tribal foes

whose children once filled the bridal trains at their own daughters’ weddings


Their brains were the first to go

then the mind was traded for intoxicants

that bigot brew that turns a simple look in a mirror

into sight-seeing wonders

where deluded angels

see nothing

but their gold standard tribal marks.

Shout at the Walled



Today, I’m carrying a spare throat to the farm:

not a hoe, not a sickle,

with brute faith I guard my loins

and trudge to the point where


I set up my camp


To shout down the world

The world, as you know, is the pump-price-of-fuel


Nkkhm: a bird emerges from a hole,

like car from an underground garage,

then flees

O no – it’s a cricket!

Kruuu, a frog comes running, scared stiff

Like a concubine’s chewing’ stick

Then a redneck

All these just because I cleared my throat!

So what’s going to give when I start my shout?


I blow a shout through my ram horn

A shout of rugged airs. But it doesn’t even rumple the calico

Of the bouncers at the planets’ politburo.


I climb mount Armstrong, Louis Armstrong

And shape my cheeks like his mini-universe

and blow, blow, blow

But every shout, every decibel of outrage

Only manages to send the world to a higher orbit

The world, as you know, is the pump-price-of-fuel


Far away it spins

Beyond the reach of tear gas-and-cloud

Beyond the reach of delinquent stars splintered from the Big Bang

Beyond the reach of the spin doctors, paid

Handsomely, very handsomely

To say, very nicely,

In scented sentences

with nicotined lips

That the world is doing just fine

The world, as you know, is the pump-price-of-fuel


What a fatal love for their urbane airs.

Their elaborate gesticulations surely

Have more to do with the karat content of their cufflinks

Than the other point they want us to see:

How little it matters if, they

Started off as dieticians and ended up morticians

– it’s the same number of syllables!


That’s even before they switch on their charm

Backed by a history of histograms

And declare, with the assurance of the rarity of their perfumes

That the world is doing just fine

That many would look back, soon

And say, from marble graveyards

That this was the economist’s finest hour.







  • For the Chibok Girls

Their tears were watching God

from the base of the nose

the bit that the hangwoman left for air

and for her own  masochistic juice

chef of  the red sauce

she was one of them, you know, the  hangwoman


Their tears are watching God

from their new abodes,

far separated  from the ghostly socked long drained of fluid

the skin of their eyes thrust past the blindfold

when they were first taken –

but their takers have now settled down

to the comfort of stolen  breasts

and to gunpowder

the mildest of their intoxicants

having since obtained the consent of the raped

(and that includes diplomats too busy with  hardcover girlie mags)


It’s a jackalian task, this

haggling over minds

without a single growl

now everything is adulterated

the coquettish hands

the puerile penises touted pious

which their hangers-on use as question marks –

the gentlest form of their marriage proposals –

(reminding Satan he has a  catching up to do),

the woman’s consenting smile

the gory postings on facebook

the ambassadors’ feeble protests


everything is adulterated…


But now that they have bought

the wholesale patent to the mind of the preyed on

the hangwoman is flaunting her taunting prowess:

why don’t you admit you like it here, enh?

why don’t you admit you’re loving it?

that what they did to you last night was, you-know-whore-I-mean?

Why don’t you renounce your hopes

of a one-minute-silence at the next meeting

of the united – or other  –  nations?

why don’t you admit we’ve all failed

when we should be on all fours

we’re still hanging onto travesties of two….?

Enjoy your brunch of mashed brain

while I wield my working blades


Their tears are still watching God

for telltales

of grave spades

to bury any doubts

that it wasn’t he

that created both these species

and they themselves,

the residues,

on whom the hangwomen now practise their dying .