I.
She is black
and tanned with black darkness;
tho’ she glitters like diamond
exposed to the hot breath
of a snoring sun.
She is bold
and wears an aura cold
from traumas’ grieve,
and the restless spirits
besieging her day and night,
seeking cheap freedom
from her curse:
The potholed prisons,
and the poisoned dry cup
of her last supper feasts.
She’s inanimate,
but a cannibalistic savage;
a zombie of high repute,
drinking from her chalice,
The careless red-water spills
of bashed and dented autos
propelled by impatient pilots
for quick coins and notes
that fades into oblivion
in the morgue of no return.
II.
I pity her,
cos she’s accused
of a crime not committed.
Nay! She’s a prime suspect:
cos she witnessed these calamities.
These “mber” months
would be remembered
for more crimsoned pints
freely donated
to her blood bank,
by those willing volunteers,
whose fate must end
on high speed;
on somersaulted trucks;
Or, from highway blood pressure.
I still must praise thee
for traveling me
to a destination
of wits and great feats,
on your highway to the grave.
Tho’ you are to blame
for not sucking the holy juice
of your infidel husbands;
but that of innocents, who
never made you so.
I’m awed
at the size of your bowels,
and its reservoir
that never goes dry,
even at lengthy summer seasons.
When will your hunger quench?
When will your bowels
constipate of excess
belches of spilled blood
on your silent turf of tar?
Iyeomoan, Ehizogie
Nigeria.
