Road to the Town Hall

If I were to name,

I would name River Gambia

For it never changed colors, never blue or green

The waters are either brackish or bland; never idle

Its path is still easterly; never erred;

It never roared, because it opts to flood the rice paddy along its banks;

If I were to name

I will cull it, for being pure in its closure.

But it’s sad, that I will not

Because the road to the town hall is still soiled;

Saddles are everywhere, and I can be at bay

For not voting the loafer.


Living Where the Sun Shines

Living where the sun shines is ace,

But the second era is bitter.

Mornings are never different;

You wake up hoping for better notes

But the dolor shadows you

You are maimed, merged with an end to the cosmos

All you think of is when the uncouth aeon will cease;

When the incessant cattiness will decay;

When all the sin, solecism, bane, tumor, will bar;

But its endless, the whirlwind is ever rude, never settles.


There is endless silence in the streets,

Withered meadows splash the byways,

The air lifts the skin dry, no film anymore;

Footsteps remain where you left them, never refined;

The ‘back-way’ drains the cadets; and some, gone till cows come home;

Relicts are everywhere, the field seizes the oomph of men

Who decided to stay; who set to age our busted land.


Every morning is grey, full of dismay, forlornness

And we all know the plague of the reign.

True, there are some, who love the crude days,

They die for it; they worship the oddities,

They are averse to veto it,

Though they see the edge, they’re still wild.


But it’s time to halt the game,

The force is croaking,

The banyan is slumping,

The leaves are dropping, day by day,

The hardy seat is sinking,

For we want to live where the sun shines,

So we will strive and work and pray

For our home land, should equally shine on all the citizens.

Shut Not Your Doors

Shut not your doors

We are coming at noon,

Won’t let the sun set at our cold backs

We woke up to the serene morning, wishing to track the wind

Some of us had our feet covered in dust, had more laterite roads to trek

And our faces bloated

Some left no food for the crying babies; the pockets are full of holes

We trekked through the haunting dusk

Flattened the bush on our paths

Because we believe the country is ours, not a tyrant’s.

So we traversed the odds to fetch our last hope

For we want to track the new wind and straighten its course

This wind had wondered wild

As if we had no god watching over our shredded shoulders

With a pale karma, we yearn for the change

But over and over, we are loathed with threats, lies and insults

But we never knew, nor do you, that our land has other immortals whose votes outweigh the ramshackle land.


Shut not your doors

We are coming at noon, won’t let the sun shimmer.

The boxes have our votes but hopeless that the wind will pass our neighs

Repeatedly, they remind us that our votes are void

For it is the god and his jinn who forfeit our state

So we are only slaves to their perfect choice.


Shut not your doors

Because he soffocates our votes; eternates the throne

And the noon sun will once more be shut on us

One by one, our cold souls will sneeze

One after the other, we will be rotten bracts

Our plights will be unknown like the votes we lost for generations.


Shut no your doors

Because we will scuttle behind the curtains

To lay our weary breathes on your warm corridors,

Our land can’t we have to ourselves anymore,

For African elections are buffooneries to seize our remaining lives.

A Sabbath

Don’t err me,

Am a wordsmith foraging in wilderness,

The lines, the words I spew, might be vile

But don’t let them eat your courage

I bear them to win the egress,

Wild paths that are not taken.

Some roads I know lead to somewhere,

But I might not take all roads,

So you shouldn’t, they’re, but not meant for us,

Don’t tour them, they’re only for the Sabbath.

And am the Sabbath,

Am just a rummaging vagabond.

Potted Tree

Do I know how happy your head is in that sanctuary?

The vase; yourself; you tread behind his mind.

And he, the jeweleries of the earth, begot.

May I know how far your legs carry you?

For it has been years

Since I saw you stationed in the wild corner of his sitting room

With only your tiny fingers waving around to the passing winds;

How far do they travel?

And what blessing carries them to the eavesdropping man?

Since our first encounter

I saw the faint you

Is it because your hands are still turbid?

Or is it pride to declare the ache in your mind?


Potted tree, you ravished sibling

Haven’t you seen the ages of your head

servicing the distances that man never dreams of venturing?


But you, you only sigh by the deaths of your properties

And count how many of them remain to make your heart wilt.


Potted tree, you dispirited child of nature.

Black in white

Keep your face to the sunshine

And you cannot see the shadows

But see the light

And the hidden glows behind its eyeballs

There is the marble of gold

Glittering in the earth.


Still keep it buried right into its heart

And what do you see?

A world of blurred vision

That shadow behind the back of light

I mean the black found in the bosom of white.


See me and I look at you

If it be possible to see you in me or me in you


If the world be two folds:

Of light, of darkness;

Of man, of woman;

Of his left palm, of his right palm


See the complexities

The ones and twos

The threes and fours

How they add themselves

Branding none, but of diversities of numbers.


Then find out

If me be you

Or you be me.