My country gently whirls by —
south becomes north, east turns to north,
west becomes the vagabond, walking the
streets with a steam of pot under her skirt,
a rat-hole in her apo ?gb?-ikun.
These four cardinal points meet at a collision in my head — bang!
Hell quickly draws blinds apart,
down the windows of my mind.
From the sanctum of nativity my feet
becomes still imitating the rebellious will
of trees; my hands chained along her trodden path; a watcher at
her performing theatrics.
Through liquid prayer-and-fasting several
burnt offering for her salvation has been
offered to the four winds, to their
terrestrial sphere unreturnable.
I think of her receding hairline:
covered with religious cosmetics.
I marvel at the rabble chasing in her eyes
which hug the mutilated remains
of her body, surrounded by worthless
men with red oceans in their eyes,
without core or guts. But with hands laid
on her throat as she shudders at her
despair of death. Oh! My Country,
harmattan dewdrops rolls into ringlets
of memories; should Fela Kuti
be resuscitated, should his Saxophone
still strings rhythm of African Woman
mesmerizing in a hot fire dance…
.