My only surviving grandparent turned seventy one [71] late December 2009. She was full of anticipation for the new year, and I wondered why a septuagenarian would be so apt about 2010. She looks forward to seeing her last daughter tying them nuptials, another year of bliss hopefully, good health and perhaps this time next year, should be boasting of more grandchildren [and who knows, great grand children]. I understand her position towards 2010 from an old African proverb that says "what a child can't see, up on an iroko tree, an elder does sitting". She's seen it all, and not to give preference to the schemings of 2010, would be to fail from the start.
Today, the transfer window officially open in England, and those of you - like me, ardent football freaks would monitor, analyse, "mock-buy", predict and follow the happenings. Like all of you, I expect the right activity for my dear supported club. However, another transfer window opens today. "The Resolutions Transfer Market". With a lot of bad habits, misdemeanors, acts, immorals and shortcomings expected to give way to chastity, discipline, good behavior, "clean bills" and character. I ask how much do we need to buy good over bad? For some, its keeping a clean sheet. For others, its surpassing 2009's goals. In some cases, its just sustainability. In all cases, beating the gun won't be a good way to start a race of three hundreds and sixty five days.
Sometimes, we try, but don't try well enough to achieve the goals we set. Sometimes, we even set goals so we can - like every achiever, talk about goals and ambitions. We never understand the reasons why well enough, nor customize goals to our realities. I for one, fail on this basis. In 2009, three of six books were started; none has reached an advanced stage. Some manuscripts are even long forgotten. For some of the books, there are a lot of plot clashes. For others, its an issue of starting what I can't finish. Emotionally, I have failed to tie myself down to some commitments, responsibilities and demeanor. Yet, 2009 was a success for me. Yet, I crave to be better. To relate well with people, maybe not all people but most people; to set out on goals with precision, and to live a fulfilling life before God and before men.
Today, is my best shot at making 2010 the best of my life. Why should I wait for tomorrow am so uncertain about? Thus, I'd live it, like it was my last. And I expect you to follow suit. Don't be like Osuofia, who tries to calm a crying baby by asking it what it would do tomorrow, if it cried today. If you need to cry, please do cry today, when there are lots of shoulders to provide succor. I will live out 2010 today, stepping on them stones of yester years' experiences, and hope I achieve the goals of 2010, today!
Showing posts with label Nigerian writers. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nigerian writers. Show all posts
Friday 1 January 2010
Saturday 4 October 2008
AN ODE TO POETRY
Man's language in pleasure
The most perfect of speeches
Brings nearer the truth –
Truth seen with passion
Truth united with pleasure
Calls imagination to the help of reason
Caused by intense realization,
Life explores its amazement
The spontaneous overflow of
Powerful feelings – emotions;
Emotions put in measure
Its ingenuity translated
In to language busy about imitation
Life really, is poetry.
The most perfect of speeches
Brings nearer the truth –
Truth seen with passion
Truth united with pleasure
Calls imagination to the help of reason
Caused by intense realization,
Life explores its amazement
The spontaneous overflow of
Powerful feelings – emotions;
Emotions put in measure
Its ingenuity translated
In to language busy about imitation
Life really, is poetry.
Monday 1 September 2008
TROUBLES NEVER SINGLY COME
The winds wound round the hills and came tumbling in to the sleepy town,
carrying heavy July clouds. In this part of the country, the months of
July and August come with heavy dark clouds that causes downpour,
sometimes for days unending. It was the second week in July, and the
water aquifer was fast coming closer up.
Irish potatoes would soon be ripe for harvest, and the local acha will revel in the much rains. The rains always come with angry winds, which torpedo after crashing against the fore-slopes of the highlands. They will take off roofs of houses, uproot trees and cause fear down the bones of children.
The swoosh-swoosh snarls that engulfed the low heavens that evening, ensured that as many peasant farmers that made it to their farms that day, returned home early on to the comfort of their hearths. Some animal was scowling in the wild, probably lost, and the sound was coming from near the village gate. The winds continued to torment roofings made of palm fronds, even as the poorly made ones began to make way, and the old ones allowed water to gather inside.
Somewhere distant from the village square, close to the burial ground, about a few meters from the border of the village and the ‘evil’ forest that sits below the hills, the cry of a woman rented the air almost beyond the sonority of the winds. In defiance, the winds increased in noise and intensity, the rains now pouring down in anger and torrents.
From the north, almost in the opposite direction, lightening flashed across the grey skies and the resulting thunder rested at the base of an old dried oak, three huts away from the place the cry had emanated. The winds had died down now, but the rains continued to pour. The thunderbolt had ignited a fire at the base of the tree, and flames began to blaze in the rains, even as the wail of a newborn rent the steel cold night.
Ayuka was fatigued. She and the unborn had tussled from midday. She had prayed to the Good Spirit, to let her get a safe delivery, and the prayer included her labour, in her hut. But her wishes were not being fulfilled. She began to realize this, the moment those severe pains had started. She was tending young mushrooms on a strip of land, an echo from the thick of the forest. She thought of the bountiful harvest she was going to reap, and the profit she would make at Tallata market. And of the clothings and good healthy food she was going to stock for the baby. She would call the baby Arziki, and prayed it would be a girl.
The land was very fertile, and showed this by the huge growth of tender edible mushroom that grew from it. At first, she thought it was someone else’s farm, and overlooked it. Her repeated strolls through that trail, alerted her to the weeds that now competed with the mushrooms. No good farmer would allow his farm overgrown with this much weeds she thought. And that was when she took over.
Her tummy had been bulging for five moons now since she took note of the protuberance. As the days waned, she became aware of intermittent pains. Although she had learned from experience to be as subtle as possible, not to call up the bouts of snapping pains, she was carried away in her thoughts, and didn’t realize how rigorous she was getting with the tend.
That was when the pains started, and got unusual. Though she had witnessed similar pains in the past, they had varnished after some while. This one had forced her to abandon the tend, and head for home. She felt very sore from the pains and from her urgent pace to get home. And it was right on her way, that the tumbling winds had met her. The gruesome throes of labour right in the heavy downpour had left her muscles battered and aching.
Her under body was still on fire, like those times the illness overthrow and got worse because she had nowhere to go, and no one to call for help and had to lie in her hut till she began to feel better. On those days, the reproachful words of her father would ring aloud in her head, while Inna’s loud sobs burst tears down her sullen cheeks. She had had little time to take enough valuables before the Majjalisar Dattawa came calling. That day was austere and desolate. She had never felt love leave her like that day.
For now, getting the child warm was her utmost priority, as every bit of clothing was drenched and unsuitable for the occasion. The cold was fast settling in. She let out frequent sobs now and then, and the frequency was getting on the high side. However, she thought not of herself, as the little bag of life lay, yelling to the night.
She mustered what was now left of her strength, with a lot of gut, and snapped the umbilical, as she tried to separate the baby from her, to then clean up the mess. The scene was indeed gory, as she, in closed eyes undid the child from her, and silenced it in “first milk”. Not knowing from where the will came, she dragged, not in an attempt to get to what has been her source of shelter for nine moons now, but to get closer to the burning tree.
They both now desperately needed the warmth, but as the baby sucked, what remain of her energy seemed to drain with the flow of the milk. She had not had anything to eat, since she ate some of the tuber some benevolent passerby had gifted her the day before. She could not remember the last time she had ample food to eat, so she continued unending, to thank the man, until his bicycle had had taken him far from hearing distance. She had roasted a half of the yam, and planned to eat the rest when she returned from the farm today.
Rumblings continued in the sky, but were now from afar. The rains had now migrated, and only the Good Spirit knew what havoc they meted where they now poured. No one would complain by morning. “The rains have made repairs” they would say, as peasants with damaged houses would now go about renovating them, while those with waterlogged farms or severely damaged crops would count their losses.
But now in the cold dark night, a parliament of owls exchanged successive hoots in the not too far distance, the most resounding coming from the hills. She knew that owls told of bad augur, and hoped whatever it was, would be as distant as the continuous rumbling of the skies. Her only source of salvation was the fire, which crackled in the rich fuel of the old oak.
She was grateful to be close enough now, to provide ample warmth for the newborn, a baby boy, and to also keep away any wandering hyena whose path may seem to cross here before dawn. The fire crackled as if in response to her. And she prayed that it burns far in to the night. Then everything went blank.
The torrents had moved ahead, but drizzles continued in its wake. The heavens were just clearing up the remnants of clouds that were heavy some few hours before. On some occasion, it would drizzle on until the resolve of the people would force it to stop. This they seem to do by defying it, and continuing their normal business. Today, there would be no need for it, as dusk was already night, and the hearth would provide better comfort. Only by morning would any damage be of any significance.
Some rhythmic mantra broke the silence that ensued for about a quarter of an hour. It came from the hills that stand guard for the village. The marabou, whose duty it was to carry messages from the Good Spirit for the village, had made there his home. The place and its inhabitant were very revered amongst the people.
Between the hills and the village laid the ‘evil’ forest to which no inhabitant of the village was to step. It had human eating creatures; fathers would tell their children to deter them from hunting Agama lizards from thence. Only the Majjalis – the council of elders, after cleansing could walk the forest to the hills, where the Good Spirit lived, and the marabou made adulation daily. And on such occasions, like today’s, atonement and reverence would be their only reason to approach the hills.
The tapping of the marabou’s drum was notoriously paramount amidst the chant. The Majjalis was performing a ritual to cleanse the land of all evil and abominations. It was a yearly event. Twelve moons counted unending, and then restitution would be sought. The marabou had premeditated the day for the ritual, and hoped the Good Spirit would provide ample supplies of sacrifice. They had needed the blood of an innocent child, or of a stranger.
Now, the ritual had gone ahead. It would last till the early hours of the morning, around when the cock let out its first crow. Then they – the Majjalis, would tarry two more days to unwind, and travel down from the hills from where the marabou’s shrine laid, a watchtower for the village.
Irish potatoes would soon be ripe for harvest, and the local acha will revel in the much rains. The rains always come with angry winds, which torpedo after crashing against the fore-slopes of the highlands. They will take off roofs of houses, uproot trees and cause fear down the bones of children.
The swoosh-swoosh snarls that engulfed the low heavens that evening, ensured that as many peasant farmers that made it to their farms that day, returned home early on to the comfort of their hearths. Some animal was scowling in the wild, probably lost, and the sound was coming from near the village gate. The winds continued to torment roofings made of palm fronds, even as the poorly made ones began to make way, and the old ones allowed water to gather inside.
Somewhere distant from the village square, close to the burial ground, about a few meters from the border of the village and the ‘evil’ forest that sits below the hills, the cry of a woman rented the air almost beyond the sonority of the winds. In defiance, the winds increased in noise and intensity, the rains now pouring down in anger and torrents.
From the north, almost in the opposite direction, lightening flashed across the grey skies and the resulting thunder rested at the base of an old dried oak, three huts away from the place the cry had emanated. The winds had died down now, but the rains continued to pour. The thunderbolt had ignited a fire at the base of the tree, and flames began to blaze in the rains, even as the wail of a newborn rent the steel cold night.
Ayuka was fatigued. She and the unborn had tussled from midday. She had prayed to the Good Spirit, to let her get a safe delivery, and the prayer included her labour, in her hut. But her wishes were not being fulfilled. She began to realize this, the moment those severe pains had started. She was tending young mushrooms on a strip of land, an echo from the thick of the forest. She thought of the bountiful harvest she was going to reap, and the profit she would make at Tallata market. And of the clothings and good healthy food she was going to stock for the baby. She would call the baby Arziki, and prayed it would be a girl.
The land was very fertile, and showed this by the huge growth of tender edible mushroom that grew from it. At first, she thought it was someone else’s farm, and overlooked it. Her repeated strolls through that trail, alerted her to the weeds that now competed with the mushrooms. No good farmer would allow his farm overgrown with this much weeds she thought. And that was when she took over.
Her tummy had been bulging for five moons now since she took note of the protuberance. As the days waned, she became aware of intermittent pains. Although she had learned from experience to be as subtle as possible, not to call up the bouts of snapping pains, she was carried away in her thoughts, and didn’t realize how rigorous she was getting with the tend.
That was when the pains started, and got unusual. Though she had witnessed similar pains in the past, they had varnished after some while. This one had forced her to abandon the tend, and head for home. She felt very sore from the pains and from her urgent pace to get home. And it was right on her way, that the tumbling winds had met her. The gruesome throes of labour right in the heavy downpour had left her muscles battered and aching.
Her under body was still on fire, like those times the illness overthrow and got worse because she had nowhere to go, and no one to call for help and had to lie in her hut till she began to feel better. On those days, the reproachful words of her father would ring aloud in her head, while Inna’s loud sobs burst tears down her sullen cheeks. She had had little time to take enough valuables before the Majjalisar Dattawa came calling. That day was austere and desolate. She had never felt love leave her like that day.
For now, getting the child warm was her utmost priority, as every bit of clothing was drenched and unsuitable for the occasion. The cold was fast settling in. She let out frequent sobs now and then, and the frequency was getting on the high side. However, she thought not of herself, as the little bag of life lay, yelling to the night.
She mustered what was now left of her strength, with a lot of gut, and snapped the umbilical, as she tried to separate the baby from her, to then clean up the mess. The scene was indeed gory, as she, in closed eyes undid the child from her, and silenced it in “first milk”. Not knowing from where the will came, she dragged, not in an attempt to get to what has been her source of shelter for nine moons now, but to get closer to the burning tree.
They both now desperately needed the warmth, but as the baby sucked, what remain of her energy seemed to drain with the flow of the milk. She had not had anything to eat, since she ate some of the tuber some benevolent passerby had gifted her the day before. She could not remember the last time she had ample food to eat, so she continued unending, to thank the man, until his bicycle had had taken him far from hearing distance. She had roasted a half of the yam, and planned to eat the rest when she returned from the farm today.
Rumblings continued in the sky, but were now from afar. The rains had now migrated, and only the Good Spirit knew what havoc they meted where they now poured. No one would complain by morning. “The rains have made repairs” they would say, as peasants with damaged houses would now go about renovating them, while those with waterlogged farms or severely damaged crops would count their losses.
But now in the cold dark night, a parliament of owls exchanged successive hoots in the not too far distance, the most resounding coming from the hills. She knew that owls told of bad augur, and hoped whatever it was, would be as distant as the continuous rumbling of the skies. Her only source of salvation was the fire, which crackled in the rich fuel of the old oak.
She was grateful to be close enough now, to provide ample warmth for the newborn, a baby boy, and to also keep away any wandering hyena whose path may seem to cross here before dawn. The fire crackled as if in response to her. And she prayed that it burns far in to the night. Then everything went blank.
The torrents had moved ahead, but drizzles continued in its wake. The heavens were just clearing up the remnants of clouds that were heavy some few hours before. On some occasion, it would drizzle on until the resolve of the people would force it to stop. This they seem to do by defying it, and continuing their normal business. Today, there would be no need for it, as dusk was already night, and the hearth would provide better comfort. Only by morning would any damage be of any significance.
Some rhythmic mantra broke the silence that ensued for about a quarter of an hour. It came from the hills that stand guard for the village. The marabou, whose duty it was to carry messages from the Good Spirit for the village, had made there his home. The place and its inhabitant were very revered amongst the people.
Between the hills and the village laid the ‘evil’ forest to which no inhabitant of the village was to step. It had human eating creatures; fathers would tell their children to deter them from hunting Agama lizards from thence. Only the Majjalis – the council of elders, after cleansing could walk the forest to the hills, where the Good Spirit lived, and the marabou made adulation daily. And on such occasions, like today’s, atonement and reverence would be their only reason to approach the hills.
The tapping of the marabou’s drum was notoriously paramount amidst the chant. The Majjalis was performing a ritual to cleanse the land of all evil and abominations. It was a yearly event. Twelve moons counted unending, and then restitution would be sought. The marabou had premeditated the day for the ritual, and hoped the Good Spirit would provide ample supplies of sacrifice. They had needed the blood of an innocent child, or of a stranger.
Now, the ritual had gone ahead. It would last till the early hours of the morning, around when the cock let out its first crow. Then they – the Majjalis, would tarry two more days to unwind, and travel down from the hills from where the marabou’s shrine laid, a watchtower for the village.
Thursday 28 August 2008
INITIATION
I sit half awake, half amok
Carried away by the chants
Of empty scary black masks
Droning chants of nineteenth century druids
Seasonal migrants to our lands
Coming with the birds to breed
Souls and life taken with them.
On the day gboya* and I made four
Exchanges of souls, oaths cursed
Dust mixed with the ceremonial broth
Cooking at the square, now four days
Humans used to skin drums
Bones made in to khalils^
remnants end up as bodily markings
Away to a place strange
Where dementors are harmless
And back through an interswitch
here am ushered in to manhood.
* - masquerade in Nupe (A Nigerian dialect)
^ - A Jewish flute
Carried away by the chants
Of empty scary black masks
Droning chants of nineteenth century druids
Seasonal migrants to our lands
Coming with the birds to breed
Souls and life taken with them.
On the day gboya* and I made four
Exchanges of souls, oaths cursed
Dust mixed with the ceremonial broth
Cooking at the square, now four days
Humans used to skin drums
Bones made in to khalils^
remnants end up as bodily markings
Away to a place strange
Where dementors are harmless
And back through an interswitch
here am ushered in to manhood.
* - masquerade in Nupe (A Nigerian dialect)
^ - A Jewish flute
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