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.

Our Apologies

Our songs, soft, like evening crickets, did die in greedy hands

We stood, in thick and thorn, to tear the deadlocked bondage

But never did we know the hands we were to carry are of another canebrake.

They waved and spread in the surreal air of the campaign trails.

They waved, with rage and vigor to the outrageous crowds

And their smiles, his smiles elated the protruded, innocent eyes.

The change was what we yearned

Our legs were tired of ferrying the dead, old baobab trunk

And our ears were weary of the daily tirades of lies and insults.

So we sang our soft songs, like migrating honey bees

But we couldn’t size the other tongue that languished in confusion.

And never did we know how frail, inept and lame he’s to be.

Who needs to mothball the same enfeebled jackass to lead us for another barren decade and exhaust our feeble, meager buttermilk?

We don’t and won’t take another botch.

Our legs are spent of ferrying another dead, old baobab trunk

And our ears are cloyed of the daily tirades of lies and insults.


I just want to scream into infinity

To melt into the tumultuous orgasm

Of the loss of alignment

Of being wrapped around with sweltering ore

Am lost, lost in the wild gyre

Wandering like a vagabond amiss barchans of hard, hot boulders

Loitering naked like a day-old chick.

The days and nights are nigh

They last longer than decades

And never ending like a horizon

But they are times when I want to evade the breeze around me

And to rest eternally among a mirage of clouds

But a thought about them, those soft pebbles ever yearning to see me once again

Dampens my reckless, useless butt

To wait again, wait hopelessly.

The last abuse

Perhaps you thought it’s a lie again

I had lied several times

That I will love you in your deathbed

But all I was, was a liar

But this time, I will wipe your feet

With my wet tongue, and amass the dust in my house

For this time,

Believe me, even though it’s for me

But I promise that my love is a white pigeon

Flapping its wings in the wild gyre

In search of a stench buried in a starless night.

Believe me one last time

Even though it’s for my interest

Even though it’s selfish of me

Perhaps you will stay

And listen to my last lies

I will coo to none but you

My lies will glue us.


Am at the edge now

I like old souls, old people, and old shoes

I am at the horizon,

I like everything as old as me

Except you, fresh like lemonade

At least this time you could listen to my lies

Perhaps you could rest on my shoulders as we did in the tavern

Perhaps you could rest your tired eyes

Peeping deep into my watery eyes

Like we used to do in the meadows

Staring at the last lilies

Before they wilted, like our lost lust

Perhaps you will stay this time

And swallow my last beats

Of the last lies ready to eddy a sailor.


You made my heart beat so fast it shattered like glass in a slum

Perhaps, this time you could stay

And listen to my last breathe

That only counts your steady paces

Like a starlet held in time

I have tried thinking but being wary of my shadows

I have tried stopping my breath

But the thoughts about you

Dissuade me from all my humble thoughts about our parting

And here I am, ready to lick your earthed fertility

Here I am, ready to spew my final lies

Perhaps you will stay this time

And let us flock to the mirage of my lust

Perhaps you could listen to my last lies

That laying my head on your chest

Listening to your heartbeats

That’s the safest and calm feelings in the world.