Favours as Trust

 

How often do favours come to man
And he fears,
Lest they stray him to pomposity and self-conceit.
And favours could roll down with profusion,
That, if he chooses to forget himself,
Would think them the result of his wisdom,
or rather his cunning,
As much as they are his entitlement.

As a mien of nothingness, man is
Vulnerable at conception and delivery,
Even so, as he toddles the smarmy landscape
Of life that he naively feels to control.

And Trust looks loose, desirable, reachable,
And, therefore, happily beheld
With the eyes of a starving herd to hay,
Or the carnivorous type to their hapless prey.

The receiver of Trust  may weigh not the how
And wherefore of the burden,
Or his want of personal strength,
To deliver.
Nor may he be concerned on the risk of default.
Every favour is a responsibility assigned,
Confidence reposed,
A weight to discharge and account for.

Of fading wisdom and posterity

 

With super-abundance of food
Yet people are hungry,
No elder seems available to say:
“Cook the food and eat”.
All are thirsty though they are by the river,
For none is there to say:
“Fetch and drink your full”.
Although every house leaks,
No voice dares to entreat:
“Why? Mend your roofs!”.
Education is all farewell “Eludetus”,
No collective courage
To make its domain “Hereditus”.
While remedies abound, all are sick,
As though all are afraid to say:
“Let’s treat ourselves”.
With dearth of leadership, age seems a burden
That, often, even legends are left with baggage
of wisdom with no space to share.

The Sage in all of us, and in our societies,
Is now a shabby, unneeded enigmatic being,  
Who should but sit, passively, staring at everyone,
As though gazing at players in a drama
Whose next scenes are a subject of perplexity.
He should speak not, except where instructed,
To beseech children to sally forth to their bidding.
His harmless demeanour, should only but
Elicit a “what does the old man think” murmur.
Where he came about, the steep snags-laden climb to his age,
not a bother,
He should only be a subject of pity, or perhaps, scorn.
He is to be referenced by his appearance and, often, his age,
Everyone’s duty, or so it seems, is to
Consign him to ignorance of the modern,
And, therefore, be accorded no voice in it.
This society which lives fully on caprices,
Where everyone ‘knows’ everything,
Their strength being used to fight but themselves.

Unmasking Covid-19

You were a menacing predator,
Who tiptoed spotlessly,
One sly step after another.
You were a virus without border,
Who covered entire spaces,
One sinister step after another.
You were an inglorious extremist,
Who unnerved the global population,
One innocent being after another.
You were a stealthy slayer, as
People consumed your toxin,
One fatal sip on another.
Your symptoms were “Covid”:
Common, unpretentious,
A cough here, a blocked nose there,
A headache, and/or a fever,
Signs of common ailments.
With innocence, people even wanted to cheer,
But, My Dear,
Victims chocked and gravitated to expire.

Blurry news of deaths, sadly, became clear,
From the West unto the East,
Where mortality was high,
And the South, where Covid became a scourge
Adding to the baggage of poverty and internecine conflicts.
Covid’s commands were gloomily “Covid”:
“Everyone, equally, to mask their face”,
“Equally, to stay distant from each other”;
“Nobody, equally, must travel”, and
 “Communities, equally, to be encased”.
So, spaces were closed,
All gatherings were stopped,
Normal lives became stalled.
It developed the authority,
Charted the ominous track,
And demanded broader obedience.
It allowed no differing opinions, and
Penalised all  who dared not to defer.
Indeed, with all due respect, you, "Covid",
Are a twisted feminist.  

  

 

  

 

The paradox of freedom

“I would have vouched that was a physical almond nut”,
gaped the ant at the stunning image on the sheet.
With a surged spasm of hunger he pecked on the seeming chewy nut,
hoping that the mirage could be something he could eat.
Mournfully, he relates the spectacle to his aunt ant and dad,
Concluding with tears, “that was both deceptive and bad”.
“Mighty is the magic pen that conjures such awesome lie,
which, for its huge trickery, pushed our stomachs to dry”.
“Fingers designed the fantasy”, said brother ant.
“But the arms, don’t forget, twist both finger and pen,
and, where do you leave the brain?”, averred the aunt.
“The brain, the thinking store house of men,
is where mischief is made for fun, though it causes great alarm, 
unbeknownst that, though simple, such could cause lots of harm".

Of Ziyad

“May the fingers of tyranny allow me some peace
When I dig and stay in a grave”.
So, dug a “grave” Ziyad did and goes to sleep “in peace”.
Or so he thinks, since he feels to be no longer a slave
of his environment, and of the politics of his state.
And so Ziyad goes and comes back to his chosen space,
Assured that his new found peace would not cease. 
He would stay in his grave and sleep as he so wish.
Questions were asked: “Why would Ziyad be such a cavefish?”.
“To live in a grave as though it was ones birthplace?”.
Busybodies convert his condition to a workspace.
Well, may such be someone’s headache, as for Ziyad
He strives and, at sunset, retires to “his grave”.

Nay, no freedom is there, after all, in “freetown”,
“Ziyad has abandoned his townspeople”,
the news adulteratingly filtered to the Crown,
Who ordered him to be dragged to the village steeple”.
Hauled he was, cloths tattered, blood smeared.
“How dare you intrude”, said Ziyad, “and disrupt
the Royal Council that I preside over , in my sleep, as a Sovereign?”
Laughed the King, who taunted Ziyad for 'hallucinating'.
“Laugh as you please”, a serious Ziyad rebuked the king,
“But mind your burden and your nauseating
insentience at the fragility of the powers you so cling.
While my fantasy ends as you woke me up from sleep,
Your reign withers off as you go to your final sleep”.

Mallam Ahmed Abdulkadir

And, these days, everywhere seems empty
except for frightened people and disarrayed countrymen,
who kneel to pray and wait for the intervention of the
Ever Watchful, before Whom neither Kidnapper escapes justice,
nor kidnapped is forgotten.
The perverse intrudes into privacies to desecrate
and defile the innocent and wreck belongings,
dispossess families of dignity and decorum
the manner of which no account is adequate
nor lamentation worthy the grief of the affected.
Ahmed Abdulkadir and Laila’s abduction
reverberates even in the ravines.
I cannot imagine the agony of a 15 year old
which, to the co-kidnapped father, traumatises
ever more than the infinite twinge they both are in.
We live with the thoughts of both of you,
and continue to pray, dear brother, for your safe return,
along with Laila and all seized countrymen.
“And We will surely test you with a measure of fear
and hunger and loss of wealth and lives and fruits,
but give glad tidings to the patiently persevering, Who,
when disaster strikes them, say, Inna lilLaHi wa inna ilaiHi raaji’un.
Those are the ones upon whom are blessings from their Lord and mercy,
And it is they who are the [rightly] guided”. 

The cold in December

I always feel to be strong against the cold,
Which makes Funtua ‘dreadful’ since time old.
With the heightened harmattan haze from November,
Funtua becomes the ‘coldest’ Hausa plain in December.
The natives cherish this peculiar geography,
As a distinct part of their history.
‘Funtua’, you would hear it being said,
Is ‘where the cold makes the night seem dead’,
This is where the umbilical code of cold was cut.

However, I have been to where crushing cold,
Would but make Funtua’s to hastily fold,
And retreat speedily in search for shelter,
 “Gaba da gabanta”, as everyone jostles helter-skelter.
‘For every  cold situation, there is another much severer’,
Cracks on my skin, which appear drier and clearer,
Stand like a colony of maps horribly drawn,
My children would giggle as we exercise in the lawn,
Seeing dad’s legs covered with such funny cuts.

I feel like to say, when I see how
The piercing cold squeezes every bit of Vitamin D
Off my friends, whose heads also bald for want of Vitamin E:
‘Oh, blazing sun! Your shiny Excellency!
How I long for your 38°C,
I swear I can do with your 40°C,
When I could freely bask and feel thirsty,
Then eat those foods that are truly so tasty,
And have a dessert of our coveted kola nuts’. 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Road worthiness

How we drive our vehicles,
Our Achabas and Okadas,
And weave our way across our roads,
Paint the true ‘us’,
Our tumultuous inner self.
The story of a family of road users,
Everyone a friend or a neighbour,
A colleague or a leader,
In confusion with themselves.
The sane the stranger and outcast.
As a ‘dutiful’ bunch we are happily reckless
In speed, as we flout the traffic signs.
Alas, there may be no signs.
Heedless, as we brake and as we turn.
Rash, as we speed over the ‘round-abouts’.
We disparage fellow commuters
As we sprint to beat the traffic light,
Where there are lights, anyway.
Everyone ‘joyfully’ exhibiting anarchy.
Neither age absolved, nor gender.
None worthy of the other's ear,
Or sympathy,
The leader, the follower,
The politician, the public servant.
Were sanity on our roads a manifesto,
Leadership would’ve led this twitchy family to stability.
Let’s  water this seeming bottomless pit
To save it from being a pit, fit only for the poo.

Longing

How devotedly does a young man behaves when he feels to love? He paints all the pictures of what he thinks represents his situation. He could, for example, pose long winding questions:

“Do I look for age,
when I labour for days,
And months and years,
Head up so are arms,
All worries fully borne,
My heart happy at most,
Wishing, Nay! Needing,
In the most privileged palms,
Securely to be caged,
in a purposeful love?”

He could go even further to create a beatific imagery of his targetted love: 

“A distinct spectacle.
Does nature get tired,
In providing you with vapour,
And sunshine to guard your texture,
Not to stifle your roses?
No! My dear floret so bright!!!
Blossoming with flawless fragrance,
You sway right and left,
In early morning bliss,
To rest only when there is no more breeze.”

And when the response to his desires is not forthcoming, he could plead. He could envisage what he thinks may be the cause for 'his love’s’ non-responsiveness and proceed to address them, persuasively.

“Don’t turn away and sigh,
Don’t Look bored and tired".
I quickly observed her,
Enveloped in a quandary.
She shrugged,
Searching incisively,
Needing more assurance,
"Are you not just a wanderer?
A malevolent freebooter?"
She discreetly wonders.

"Perceive the sun when it goes west,
And the stars quiet in their nests,
And the moon when it stands best,
They all work perfectly lest,
Any should cause injury to the rest,
I should think we signify a harmony,
In a twisted environment, an irony,
No one stimulates a disharmony,
Even if they live in ivory,
Or may have been to Germany”.

Of course, none is suitable for her attention but he. While prodding for consideration he often uses all the armoury of his strength to make a formidable appeal:

“I feel I am the butterfly,
Ordained to surround and fly,
And chase abominable flies,
Either set them to hurried flights,
Or get their wings all blight,
From you my flower so bright.
Can I, poor me, be wrapped in this fitting cloth,
And cover mine self in this world-wide space,
Then walk, tic and tic, with majesty as the clock,
And announce, ho-hey, that I, indeed, am loved?”.

Everyone should hope that these are genuine thoughts and offers which are meant to engender a long and lasting marital bliss. Then, all should wish them well.

Transience

When you look carefully back,
When you were on mama’s back
When you toddled and fell back,
When you happily began to walk,
When, being rude, you received a smack,
When you played with friends in the dark,
And made your dress all black;

Do you remember your school years?
While boarding with your peers?
Those moments, you were all cheers,
When you played and laughed with tears,
There were, as well, moments of fears,
When you had to run downstairs,
To hide from seniors and their sneers.

Do you recall when you started to work?
As a novice, you often got stuck?
Then you ascended due to your hard work?
Others would say this guy had lots of luck.
You created a spirit of teamwork.
You developed a successful network,
Of friends like a true Young Turk.

Life moved from one stage to the other,
You got married and became a father,
Begot one child after another,
Sisters and brothers growing up together,
Happy to have got a dutiful mother,
And the company of a lovely grandmother,
A family that prays for their forefathers.

You worked so people could have light,
You laboured all through the night,
I cannot recall seeing you fight,
Either with people or for your right.
Noble character led you to limelight,
As simple as good morning or good night,
Life can after all be a hallmark of delight.

You became a kind of celebrity,
Always wishing for prosperity,
And the need for giving charity,
Your kindness was surely a rarity,
It was easy to feel your sincerity,
I will align with you in solidarity,
So we could leave a mark for posterity.

Then, life winks its wide eye,
After you made the stakes high,
As clear to climb to the sky,
You retired, it was an emotional goodbye.
Slowly, you faded from the public eye.
Many years hence and I heard: ‘who is this guy?’
Could time not make age to stand by?

Then, I heard that you have died,
Was it true or have people lied?
I then noticed how everyone cried,
I praised God as our ultimate Guide,
There is no place for anybody to hide,
Those guided and those who misguide,
Leave your hair perpetually dyed.