Our kind of pain

Our kind of pain is obscene

A broth of pride, revenge, relief and sadness

This dolor bellows, it swells day and night
It’s of anger, anguish, disappointment, desertion.
Our pain is silent; it’s our enigma

Daily, we submit everywhere, we bruise our knees,  bruise our pale foreheads

but the grief is a tick.
Our kind of pain perturbs, and no one feels it but us;
And who are we, the us, I mean?
Some say it’s the diaspora, but some insist that it’s those in the stew;
Whoever it may be, I know that the caustic aggro befalls all.
Because it’s us, it’s our nation, a withering foliage.

Children can’t play in the streets; schools shelving.

Men are mice; perturbed by the off-color remarks.

Our homes are deserted, families  like chicken in rain.
Our kind of pain extorts the last saps as we near the inauguration.
Our pain, this twinge slays
But you don’t care about it,
If you’re not us; the disintegrating polity.

Careless whispers

It’s time for you to listen to the candid wind

Seems we all hear it approaching, but you;

We’re not deaf anymore, nor aghast.

Listen to the silent voice from the fated;

It’s we, not you,

It’s in the hearts, not the billboards you’re undressing in daylight;

Nor in the institutions you’re raping.

It’s the wind in us,

It’s our weary hearts, we have changed the course;

It’s not your toothless sermons nor your careless whispers swelling everywhere;

It’s us together, no more a loner, sassy.

We won’t hear your whispers anymore; worn of your careless whispers.

Eugene: Take me

Take me with your golden hands

Thrust me into the immortal furnace of your eyes

Hand in hand, let’s drown into the wilderness,

For every second, I see pale hull in the mirror;

My hair that flared is dull; the skin that fired the dark, is flabby.

Daily, the curtain is drawn nearer, I hallucinate childhood,

A time when with friends, we scouted for hairs, yearned to youth, to mount the wheel.

But today, here they are, hairs everywhere, oppressive, mousy;

My chin, divorcing the bold-face; my skin, wrinkling.

Eugene, take me into your warm arms

Wrap my defoliating skin, grease my throbbing heart

They’re tearing apart, plunged into ice that never melts.

Take me in, for the heat encysting me is baneful

It matures daily, creepy.

Eugene, take me to the summit

Where I can court the pain of living and accost aging.

Enough Sirens: united in hope

United in hope, we can rest the dust around us,

With the ardor, we can gyre the wilderness; push the course; settle the confusion.
Did we ever know that we can be married, in a wish to see the bull’s eyes?
That one day, we can remove the cocky mammoth from its mantle;

Without mushing, but with our tied, flabby hands?
Did we ever know that we can raise the flag
With one finger, without shivering?

But we did it, mixed in a mortar;
Though, day and night, we’re being severed,
Derailed with derogatory tirade; thick tribal and holy division.

But today, the hope of being free is our glue, our compass;

And we thrashed the swanky mammoth, mixed in a mortar.
We should not let the glue melt, it’s our last fragile hope.
Our hope is nigh, a month away.

Our hope is greater than us,
But it is dust, whirling; it can be eased;
It’s the last drop of water from a spoilt tap, but can be fixed and collected;
It’s with a flea, consuming us, but the vermin can be negated;
The hope, today, is wispy but only together, we can hold the dust;
Together, our might can secure the lost courage;
Together, we can rest the plague and build our nation.

Our Sons and Daughters: negotiating with Jammeh

Our knees are bruised and the marrows spewing

We had begged, day and night, for the bitter end,

We had begged for our snap but his madness hikes.

There are people who oppose our plight, sever us, dock us in a burnt prairie for their selfish desires,

They strangulate us, rip us of our rights, of being freemen,

But today, we are tired of the incarceration;

The barbwires, chained around our serrated necks have maimed us, one by one.

Our sons and daughters, tell the devil that we are tired of the chains, and will no more be confined.

His gape had been scary because of the machineries, but tell him, it’s never again

There are no machineries, they now know who’s the devil,

And the sensible uniformed-men are aware, that his days are gone

And they’ll never be used as brutes, which they’re not.

They are, but our sons and daughters.

 

We couldn’t write, talk, stand nor walk; the suppression was bitter, and piling up.

But today, we will write, talk and walk;

Our itch for freedom will never ease; for we are leaning on the baobabs, our men in uniforms, our book and our rightful votes; so our bearing will be forever.

We will not turn our backs to the wind,

Today is our liberation day;

Our sons and daughters, today is our sunshine.

Impounded Democracy

Our smiles, our cracked smiles

Never roomed longer, for our freedom was a week holiday; 

Our hope was dust, swerving afar.

We are old, soiled

But the buffoonery lumps, needles us

We want to tarry our weary heads, but the storms are masturbating our purity.

Our songs, our lost lay are whooping

We are, but birds caged in mud, stifled, and our lymph swelling.

 

We are tired, unassured of our pride

But this time, our suffocated voice will be raised;

We can’t live unheard

For we are wounded divas, rubbed by a sick rat

But tell him, that our walk with him has dropped.

Our backs will never be raked with thorns

And our wild toot can’t dwindle.

We will let the children repose, the elders rest

But our youth won’t be isolated

For we will redeem the impounded franchise

Even if there be an endless carnage.

A crack on our smiles

Lit not fire to gape us,
For our smiles, our sunny teeth,
Shadowed by fractured, charred lips lurked in our charcoal-skins,
Explodes our wispy, jilted streets.

So much of us had been clogged in a grave, where the beams of our eyes were weighted.
For two moon-lights, we were woven with anger, dyed with hatred for our aids; though we are one on so many tiers.
We had been lashed where our frail bodies couldn’t endure,
Undressed and our nudity piled in the open-market,
But no one could purchase us, bulimic like an unfed, stray dog;
No one dared look at us, our skins were molting,
Lined with thick films of mucus,
And our singed feet, serrated by the long trek on stewed sand.

Some of us, since birth, were serfs.
We never knew why a swallow dives in the air,
When it spreads it’s gooey feathers and brave the winds
When it shy it’s nervy vigor and swerve past our eyes,
We only see a swallow, a tiny bird flying.
At the crossroad, we lost our breathe but couldn’t rest the last hope.
It was our life, and our radical enterprise,
So we fought, dueled, grappled,
And at morn, we perfected the score; our votes racked up the dash.
And here we are, today,
With an impeccable crack on our smiles
But barely seconds away from our cages, a stretch from the narrow impunity,
We know why the birds fly, or the sun shines;
We know why the butterfly bluffs by the flower,
Not only to rob pollen to its excess wings, or to stretch the fresh petals.
We know that there is something insolent, urbane and hexing like sea water charging torrid filth;

That, there was something beyond our ken
But it’s virgin, flippant, and alluding liberty,
And it bursts our mouths, widens the lines between the two loops;
It boosts our ivories, some white, purer than milk,
Some like flakes of rust from an effete barrel,
But we all smile, for being a swallow, a wee bird.
We have a crack on our smiles, and will never shy away,

So erase your beacon, for our smiles light all our alleys.

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.