Friday, October 2, 2026

The Literary-political junction: A Nigerian Black-Spot

 THE LITERARY-POLITICAL JUNCTION: A NIGERIAN BLACK-SPOT

There's a road in Nigeria

Narrow and twisty in this hilly area.

- the greedy man's road to riches,

The mad man's road to true madness,

The vain man's road to fame,

 yours too if  you've a wicked dream to chase,

Or a penchant for recklessness.

 

Yet every once in a while a man comes singing

Along a good path from the plains with plans

For the road.

But the junction is a jarring mess.

The man loses his music, soils his dress

Breaks his heart, disappoints his bones

Cracks his skull and denounces his own.

The nameless road twists his mind

Empties his soul into the wind.


Or sometimes a Ken Saro Wiwa's -

A thunderous rhythm that cracked the sky

And the sky wept;

On that sore spot where he last lay -

A mangled man, an icon born,

Stands an invisible signpost…BLACK SPOT

Here, Africa kills its sons.

 

Sometimes too, a Christopher Okigbo firing off

Poetry and bullets, valor and metaphor,

Freedom or death, from Biafra to heaven

That August of sixty seven.

 

But Achebe, aha! Lives still on a diet of proverbs.

In his diagnosis - "the Tumour in Nigeria"

Where fits the writer: The lab or the theatre? 

 

The scalpel on the table

Is not for the writer's hand;

the pen too needs a pair - as clean as able.

for when it gets dark in this land

The 'art of surgery' becomes a deadly metaphor 

A scene gory; like nothing you're ready for- 

The cutting, the slicing- all with danger fraught-

And, God! The practitioners, such a reckless lot.

 

Then only your pen can save us-

When heavens take leave of watch

And the skies are overcast with chaos

Political treachery and many evils such,

And the map besmirched in lunatic scrawl,

And we are lost in cyclic anarchy,

Then, the pen will point the route,

Back to the genesis, before snake and sin-

At the gates of Aden, pen will become a key

And behold, Aden delivered to us by a pen!

 

And once again, the poetry of praise, the critic of folly,

The constitution of future shall by pen be born-

By pen shall you bathe our past with clarity

Lest we forget! 

If you must walk unto the junction, Oduwole

Know this: an easy walk it shan't be




 


Tuesday, September 29, 2026

For whom the bullet races

 "Verily know thee-

That yours comes yet,

a date with a bullet:

On an unlikely evening,

an unsuspicious morning;

When impatience snaps like lightening"

The dog and the master

 The dog and the master

Today morning is the news

Of he who always had tread

With great clout these avenues

But now lies quite dead-

Gods of the night

 Gods of the night

Minutes thin towards the 0.00 hour

And sleep overwhelms,

flames are blown off wicks, the town snuggles for slumber.

A giant cloak of night descends to guard till dawn

Saints and robbers roost together.

FREE TO SAIL

 

Free to sail

When the storm of youth

Brewed inside me,

When the whirlwind of emotion

Entrapped us in folly-

The next scandal

 The next scandal

Am a Fan in a cage

Spinning in rage

fast, furious, frantic

I blast a stream of draught

In whose path sit signatories

Born In The Dung

 

Born In The Dung

So I stretch my legs

As I did those days-

As I sat upon the path

Among the spattered dung of last night

Watching for the little giants -

Little beetles that roll balls -