Our song of despair

When our musty dog died

We buried him next to a rustic clone.

I will not speak of the sadness we endured crushing his fangs

Nor of the joy seeing his infinite burial.

Ouch, I will not speak of the happiness we partook in drifting you ashore

To the cushioned clouds lining our elated hearts.

Nor how we raised our sour chests bragging about our new-found day.

Staunchly, we pride grooming you.

But today, our memories are nothing but an umbra of tenderness

Ai, I will speak of the sadness in our cloudy terrain

And of how disappointed we are with your infertility.

We thought we accrued a bouncing baby girl

Not knowing that you’re but a docile razorback.

Fridays have returned, marred by the replanting of the old dog’s guards

The same kooks that drowned our fragile mast.

Ai, I will speak about the dork we delivered

That delights in the same rancid system.

Our memories today are nothing but shadows of pain

And our parole, a pyrrhic orgasm of a virgin.

The memories of our pain from the ruffian are refreshed

From the draconian laws to the ruthless rambles,

For fridays returned with endless deforestations

And daily, we awake watching our wispy peace melt like a chameleon

With our limpid legs, not sure where to strike

But to keep on singing our song of despair.

A thousand suitors

You have come but I never doubt that you would

Though on your feeble shoulders are their pegged shadows,

A thousand iron-men I bet they are

All resolved to catch your emerald eyes

But let them come

I wouldn’t care how much strides they partake

As I know that we’re two but a concrete boulder;

We’re one but could never be null

For our breathes blowing through a brutish vent.

Behold my sorrow, they can come

A thousand pounding feet, and I wouldn’t mind to count more

For it is certain that our scents never err

We snore, but through a savage lung

Hand in hand our lame yen dare not drown, but drape our singularity

And will glow like a moonless night.

Be not hollow

Chirping birds flip their juvenile wings

Not to the downpours or the swelling heat

But the yards mounted with composite and elm seeds

And the evening grosbeaks, busy padding their winter pack.

Summer said goodbye,

Not to life but to another season.

And my jade, here betides your bloomy days,

A shift in season is a wealth of life

And your pulsation, mirrors of the treasured seasons.

My emerald, be not hollow,

You aren’t arid, but a chest marked by summer’s sunshine.

Betide the seasons, and not die crushed,

Do not suffocate or count your outnumbered strides

But cuddle the ardent breath

Like winter acorns to an awoken squirrel.

What type of time is this

I was honored

that you were here with your time.

I know that this is our homeland,

a field we all yearn to grow.

I can remember those early days of your youth

when multitudes of fog shadowed our cozy country

with sirens deafening the humid airs

and sweats drenching from our elephant earlobes

but with hope, a phantom bliss.

I can recall the days

when we eyed the well-wished direction

and heard staunch voices yelping the best days for our country.

I can remember

when you promised a golden path than the dictatorship

but today, your useless rants and clueless patterns

are a bane to our emptied souls.

We thought you would be different

but ended up fenced with the same old bulls

that moil to strip our miserable supplies.

By day you overcrowd our house with clowns, crowns and crows

and the nights you slumber to death

while our country dries and dies.

We thought you would be different

but you jibe the same old song

that god gave you the throne

and you arrogantly swear  and sing:

“where where was she?”

We thought you would be an offbeat breed

but here you are adoring the same wasted decades.

But remember that there is a place between two stands of trails

where banyans grow downhills

and the new revolutionary drive lulls their shadows

and your choice of lane we won’t dictate for you

but know that we, the new patriots, won’t tote our country astray

let alone allow any of your inutile stocks, mess with our new-found dream

Remember, with blood or fire, we won’t break

but to attend to our new-found trump;

because we’re no more honored

to trail the same impaired monocrats.

If we must fail

If we must die, let us not die an African leader:

They will drag their haft to be glued on our chairs,

Will build and buy and bottle the ill-accrued wealth across the oceans

And when their bodies fail to carry them anymore,

Home will be their graveyard, expecting to be mourned.

If we must die, let us nobly die:

The flies will know we weren’t fattened with taxes.

If we must fail, let us not fail as a hoggish:

Who will promise Singapore as our gift;

And build us a golden bridge across the Atlantic,

But in Dubai, they will be resting at the resorts, smoking cigars and eating truffles.

While us at home, the sun will be charring our leafless barks.

Folks, if we must fail or die, let us be gentle

And know that we owe it to ourselves but not to the leeches.

Our paved roads

When I look at the seas, all I see are floating bones brined like dried fish.

I look at the deserts, this is what I see:

Sunbaked, juvenile skins and skulls masking the latent wilderness.

I look then at the lands, all I could see are pale, frowned faces loitering for today;

Some with their torn skirts and shirts, eddying in the burning, empty gardens;

Some, dreading to catch their breath amidst skyrocketing commodities;

Others, with melting mud houses to fix.

But when I look at the clouds and the paved highways, I see:

Pot-bellied men busy like termites, collecting alms;

Men flying; carrying begging trays in search of foreign aids;

I see men hastily parading their skyscrapers and high-gated beach mansions, before the next dawn;

I see politicians busy canvasing votes with endless lies, swearing that they are another god;

I see men curtained with white haftans, grandmboobs and black suits;

But don’t ask me who they are because we know them

They are around us, telling bull and cock stories; pretending to be saints and sages.

But when I look at my body,

With eyes no longer blind

I see: abject confusion on our paved roads;

I see a mirage of potholes on our tared roads;

I see children hopelessly renouncing our flagstone roads.

February in Banjul

The land before was ours

But February of 1965, they said was our birth

And Banjul became ours to propagate.

We supposed to have them, presidents, but parasites, we have in our books.

We are loathed but with greedy, lunatic poets that refuse to let us go

They refuse to vacate Banjul, to be back in their yards.

And they become an all-dependent, which refuse to free Half-Die of its roach-infested streets

And filthy, skunk-littered gutters,

They shun Tobacco Road, with its mildewed sheds

And strew Banjul with poops of bats and giant-rats.

They hover, wielding and welding rods, but not too close to keep them away

Nor are the sieves with tiny meshes.

They refuse to go way as enshrined in February, but to languish in stalemate while fisting our foresights.

And they forget that the land of February is ours to grow, but has never been there for us.

The Banjul we fancy isn’t our kin, but lands to grab to death like their backyards.