By Lechi Eke
Poems of Black Africa is my own title for excerpts from a Collection of Poems from the stable of a North American poet named George Maclean Akurunwa (GMA).
GMA is a veterinary doctor by profession, who is also into medical coding, and dabbles into poetry. Many of his poems quicken the blood, and some can make you cry.
Next week, we will continue on Literary Periods. Have a good read!
I see her limping half-dead
The cracks on her walls
are beginning to unveil
after years of abuse.
The weight of subjugation
is becoming heavier and heavier,
that each time I look at her face
I see old and new wounds
widening their mouths,
disfiguring her.
Sometimes I see her walking half-dead,
sometimes I see her limping half-dead,
I see her running aimlessly
without a destination in mind,
like someone not afraid of the death
chasing her.
I never thought in my lifetime
I will see the day
rivers will harden like rocks around
the feet of our children;
I never thought in my lifetime
I will see the day Carpenter ants
will burrow into our flesh
to build their ugly nests.
I never thought in my lifetime
I will see the day our farmlands
will turn to graveyards,
or the day the hands of greed and corruption
will split our kingdom into warring
and irreparable factions.
The stolen hope of our children
has been tossed to the wild wind,
their future mortgaged by callous
executive thieves and legislathieves,
and the eyes of their innocence
gouged with the knife of apathy
by the edgy hands of tyrants.
We are drowning with our children,
surrounded by merciless tempests
with the furious mouth of death.
the anchor of our boat
has washed ashore,
with its broken chain
swallowed by hungry seaweeds.
The only paddle left in my hands
on this dangerous freedom voyage
is my weeping pen that has turned
into our spear and our anchor,
our hope and succor.
When we arrive at the shores
of a new day, if we do,
I will sing for Africa.
I will cheer her up and tell her
the brave stories of her children.
I will tell her of our constant drumbeat of hope
in the face of the violent waves of tyranny,
our refusal to kiss
the sugar-coated lips of politicians,
or shake their blood-stained hands.
When we arrive at the shores
of freedom, if we do,
there, in the wake of the new day,
I will sing and dance for her
with multitudes of gratitude
for her resilient faith,
and her relentless prayers
for all children fighting to recover
the stolen dream of Africa.
When we arrive at the shores
of freedom, if we do,
on that faithful day
which I pray every day to see,
I will dance and dance,
and sing and sing,
all day and all night,
till our wounds heal,
and our joy returns.
*******
The dancing feather
It was a day of many broken hedges,
a day my drained voice
could not appease.
The sun smiled at others,
but scowled down at me;
the earth stilled for others
but spun under me,
till the aberrant walls of my dream
fell on my feet.
Everything quaked in rebellion against me;
everyone abhorred my sight,
slamming their doors in my face,
till something beckoned me
from the sky.
it was a lonely feather,
a lonely beautiful feather
dancing at the nudge of the wind,
fluttering happily in the air
like a little, happy bird.
as I watched it floating effortlessly,
with no sign of worry;
my heart began to beam with joy,
as my yoke broke like a toy,
and the burden of my misery
felt lighter.
was it an heavenly emissary?
The more I watched the happy feather,
the more my confidence and faith feathered;
and like a dream, the world
suddenly became weightless
on my shoulders,
as light as the little feather
dancing for me.
For a long time,
I stood at the edge
of my village road, in front
of the Akurunwa family stead,
I stood, rooted,
waving at my happy companion,
Ttll it vanished from my teary eyes.
wiping my eyes, I said to myself,
“This is a sign from heaven.”
I walked back to the house
feeling invincible.
************
Morning will surely come
The night has a well-kept secret
that the prying eyes
of the moon and the stars
have not been able to unravel.
That is why I wonder
where those that plough
through the night with closed eyes
are heading to.
Oh, how dark are the hearts
of those who do not know the difference
between night and day,
those who do not know the difference
between right and wrong.
Oh, how dark are the hearts
of those who wear the night as a mask,
nighthawks that hide in darkness,
forgetting that no matter how long
the night lingers,
morning will surely come.
The Gavel has been lifted,
and morning will surely come.
*********
Like a desperate Towncrier
Every day Africa weeps
like an alarm that beeps,
every day she weeps
on the slithering shoulders of her rubbles.
every day she weeps as she watches
the gradual destruction of her walls,
and the perversion of power
by new and old breeds of politicians.
Caught in the middle of this harsh season,
in the middle of drought and wrath,
in the middle of the tumbling
grounds of Africa,
my patience has run out.
So today, I have come to sound a desperate alarm
to the ears of the silent mountains of Africa,
and to wake up the silent seas,
and forests still dancing to foreign drumbeats,
and whistling songs strange to our ears.
Today, I have come to sound a desperate alarm
before every sacred African landmark
is desecrated by the sludge
of greed and corruption;
and every youth is forced by hardship
to suffer across the deserts
to sail across the Atlantic to foreign lands.
Like a desperate Town Crier
with an urgent message,
I have come to sound a desperate alarm
in the stuffed ears of our politicians
asleep on the bed of greed.
I have come to lacerate deeply
the heart and brain
of the slumbering youths of Africa
who have been hypnotized
with sheer apathy.
Like a cockerel waking up the world
in the morning with a clarion call,
here I am with my iron bell;
I have come to sound a desperate alarm
with my weeping drums
till the great Kilimanjaro bears my message
across every Leadwood,
and every whistling thorn,
and every Sycamore fig of Africa;
I will not keep calm
till the whole forest of Africa rustles,
waking up our sleeping giants.
Like the hen who has seen
what her chicks have not seen
I have come to sound a desperate alarm
with the ink rushing from the sobbing
mouth of my angry pen,
and I will not keep quiet
till the great Nile, and Congo,
and Zambezi and other African rivers
roar and boil in rebellion
against the odious wave of tyranny.
And because nothing can convey better
the urgency of my message,
I will continue to sound the alarm
with an unwavering alacrity,
every day and every night,
even with heavy eyelids and a body
worn from the exhaustion of seeing
the disintegrating parts of Africa
falling like dead woods
into ready coffins
carved by the wicked hands
of African tyrants
and their brigand Western allies.
Even without the blessings of great oratory,
and the fragrance of fame and wealth,
I will continue to sound the alarm,
till every African father and mother
wipes the tears of hopelessness
from their eyes
to see the growing light of freedom
slowly overpowering and erasing,
from coast to coast,
the old teeming shadow of tyranny
in the streets of Africa.
I will continue to sound the alarm
until all all African youths
adjust their senses and lenses.
*********
The heart of a mother
From the angry Sahara Desert,
from the dividing lines of the Equator,
from the greedy hands of the seas,
you gathered your fifty-five children
into one large family,
attracting the wrath
of detractors and enemies.
Enemies in friend’s regalia,
thieves in friend’s regalia,
have promised to help mend her door
but our unsuspecting mother
is basking in senseless euphoria.
I will never understand
the heart of a loving mother.
you were born great,
with royal crowns and thrones,
your kingdom hedged
by great mountains and forests.
but it took only one knock
for you to throw your door wide open,
and let in strangers with hidden guns.
I will never understand
the heart of a loving mother.
In one feigned sickness of a traitor
you gave out the secret of your healing balm;
with one false promise from foreign invaders
you allowed yourself to be raided
and traded for guns and mortars
that are now killing your children;
and for one religious sermon and rite
from the lying tongue
of a sacrilegious priest
you allowed yourself to be gathered
into sacks and sold
like a cheap merchandise
in Western auction blocks.
I will never understand
the heart of a loving mother.
even in the midst of your pain,
you still welcome every race
and every tribe with love
from a heart that is daily assaulted
by those fighting to erase your name
from the face of the earth.
Even as the cloud of hatred
and exploitation thickens over you,
day after day,
you still refuse to nurse hatred,
forgiving everyone from the heart
that knows the pain of rejection and repression.
They said foolishly in their hearts;
America was yesterday,
China is today,
Africa is tomorrow;
so, they arrive tonight
in readiness to explore and batter tomorrow.
From sunrise to sunset
you sing and dance from your heart,
labouring daily to provide for your children,
even with your festering wounds.
Africa, without a doubt,
there are things that won’t change with you:
your big heart,
your sweet smile,
and your warm and loving embrace.
your children love you deeply.
*********
I must bid you bye
Now that I have drawn the curtain wide open
for you to see the growing dark cloud
in the African sky,
I must bid you bye.
I have offered you a trumpet
fabricated with ornamental letters,
and I leave you to sound the alarm
or go back to sleep.
It’s been a long day;
my pen has dried up,
and I must bid you bye.
So long, my friend, so long.
