(1) Nelson Mandela:
Madiba's humility haunts
Haughty hooligans
Huddled inside hideous
Houses of mal-governance.
As Madiba celebrate
Decades of struggles,
Strident grateful voices
Singing songs of salute,
Rendered in sonorous voices
Reverbrated
And resurrected souls
Of subdued citizens.
As Madiba stood
To celebrate and unveil
Statues of struggles,
Erected in city centres
And in the minds
Of grateful humanity,
Nelson Mandela stood,
Grey haired Madiba stood,
wiped out by age and struggles.
(2)Fela:
Sounds of saxophone,
Drumbeats,
Stage walks,
The baritone.
Tongue lashing looters
Of the people's wealth.
Strange incense,
Smokes spiraled.
The shrine
Filled with worshippers,
The priest
Presided with afro beats.
Fela
Fanned the flame of truth
To free the people
From the pangs of timidity.
Persecutions.
New brass hats
Bursted onto the scene
And burrowed
Into the people's wealth.
Fela sang,
They struck,
Persecutions persisted.
Body infirmities,
Surrender,
Farewell,
Afro beats reverberate.
(3)Our Civilization Collapsed:
A new day
Without the sonorous
Songs of songbirds
And the bustle
Of busy humans and animals.
The sun struggled to rise,
Struggled to shine,
Weighed down
By the dark couds of July.
The clouds unleashed rain,
The rain drenched and drained
Our knapsack of knowledge.
The iron birds
Could no longer fly,
The medicine men,
The medicine women
No longer know
The cure for our illnesses,
Our civilization collapsed.
The rain
Rained in torrents
And drenched our earth
Devoid now
Of our knapsack of knowledge.
(4)Loud Murmurs In The Land:
The healers
Diagnosed the wrong ailment,
They applied the wrong medications,
They insist
On applying the wrong medications,
Their hailers hailed.
The patient relapsed into coma,
Loud murmurs in the land,
Silence,
Silence of the graveyard.
The healers strut,
Pretending to heal,
Their hailers hailed.
The loud murmurs prepare
To erupt into a revolt,
A ****** revolt,
A bloodbath.
The haughty healers
Strut
Pretending to heal,
The patient remains in coma,
Their hailers still hailing.
Dark clouds
Gather over our land
Like Damocle's sword,
Threatening to slay
The guilty and the innocent.
The healers still strut
Pretending to heal,
The patient remains in coma,
Their hailers are still healing.
(5)I Am Poet Of The Streets:
I am piqued
When I am profiled
A protegee of prominent poets.
I am pained
When I am pronounced
Just a poet.
I am poet of the streets.
I walk the streets
And sing
My strident songs of protest,
Giving succour
To the indigent indigenes
Of the streets,
Impoverished
By the scoundrels who rule over them.
Mother muse
Mills my inspiration more
When I straddle the podiums
And sing for the streets.
The scorn,
The sneer
Of the scoundrels
Give flip to my resolve
To sing
And sing for the streets,
I am poet of the streets.
Chidi Anthony Opara poems
