The Maiden

By Okoye Precious Onyeka

Our birth holes are sore and red
Alas we have been raped again!

Long ago lived a fair young maiden
Virgin at heart, in mind and body
Pure and fresh like a newly birth unicorn
Her name is Africa, a tall sweet thing

Her milk sacs were pillars of rest
The milk within surging in great fury
Her lithe body shone in the Eastern sun
Her gait, her poise, no one could feign

Praised by many, envy of all
Suitors from far lands sought her hand
The Arabs first with their whitish turks
But she was coy and bid her time

Then came the Oyinbo with the reddish skin
That looked to us like a freshly cut meat
He spoke through the nose and sniffed through the mouth
A strange fellow he was, though rich like a king

The young maiden ensnared by princely charms
And costly gems from far far Europe
Eloped with him before the dawn
Little rascal said no wedding vows

And now, brother, what is this we hear?
The pretty maiden is a haggard witch
Dressed in rags, begging for alms
On the far far streets of Europe

Our birth holes are sore,
Alas! We have been raped again!

Udu mmiri

Udu mmiri has come with the biting cold
Each silvery white drop danced gracefully
With Hopes of holding hands, kissing in the rain
And writing love poems on his beard

The rains in heavy thuds descend
Like the woodcutter's saw "doom doom dooom"
Even with a face like Maria's
Mr nyongo still did not want her

Why he wanted the petite ngobisu
She could not tell
Why,with the girls flat behind?
He rebuffed her rounded bottom

Udu mmiri had come-with its red slimy friend
The worrisome clay, always kissing the foot
If only the clay was Nyongo the man
She'd blaster the mud with a thousand wet kisses

Udu mmiri was very much the caring mother
That sat all night long over an ogbanje child
For when she could no more keep back the tears
Udu mmiri in solidarity, a fiery storm!

ALL HAIL THE ENGINEERS

A Poem by Mendhie E. Imeh

Tis impossible for man to fly
Only witches have such power to fly

People thought so
People believed so

Soon came a day when the whole story changed
And man now flies far beyond his world.

Engineers are wizards
Some people still think.

All hail the engineers!

When would I see my son again?
Old women used to think again and again
Their sons have gone beyond the shore
To make ends meet and the future sure.
Time flew swiftly
And change drove in gently
The wizards came up with brand new toys.
That changed the world and caused lots of joy.
Hallo, hallo, can you hear me?
Hallo, hallo, can you hear me?
Hallo, hallo, I can hear you.
Hallo, hallo, I can see you.
Whoever did this, must be a great wizard
This very thought still runs through their minds.
All hail the engineers!

"Our goddess forbids building any bridges"
The villagers used to say

She destroys the bridge whenever she sees
With waves powerful as that of the sea

The people prayed for change to come
And God sent engineers to their home.
Soon arrived the great wizards 
Who captured their goddess like a lizard.
The entire village sang and rejoiced
For their demon has been destroyed

Finally, a lasting bridge has now been built.
Let’s praise the wizards for what they have built.
All hail the engineers!

Soups are not cooked inside the house
The fire blackens the walls and heats up the house
Great meals are prepared out in the open
With big, yellow flames burning like in the oven
Caring wives and mothers used to think so
And they taught their daughters to even believe so

Soon came a day when the whole story changed
The engineers’ new toy brought about the change
The new cooking toy had just blue flames
With just no smoky yellow flames
This isn’t possible except it’s magic
The women of old thought at first
But the wizard’s sorcery makes better soups.
The entire world now loves this magic
Yes, it must be magic
But a good magic
All hail the engineers.

The Call

From the sweltering heat of oppression
From the ugly seat of racism
From the deep labyrinth of confusion
Let's rise, brother!

At home the broom rests gracefully
Hundred broomsticks bonded together
Like the broom sweeps the dust away
Brother, we shall sweep our foes to death

No more laid down gazes brother
No more bent backs and swollen knees
When the master barks at you
Stand tall brother, roar at him

Tis true say we are Blacks
But ain't we proud of it, brother?
A white man you can be anyday
But once black is lost, its gone forever

Are we not the sons of the Kikuyu?
Did our father's loins breed goats
Haa! The son of a lion dare not eat grass
We must stand up tall and fight

A Slave's song II

The unspoken lament of a Black Slave[i]
" my tongue longs for the fountains
oh! cool sweet refreshing fountain
reminds me of Africa, my sweet home
Africa, the land of the spotted Deers
Africa, the land of lush greeneries
Africa. the home of thick black skins
Alas, here I am, my back bent over the sickle
toiling all day long in the White man's
plantation
digging, pruning, clearing, planting, and
harvesting
while the White master walks round
Brother! he walks like a man with a boil on the
anus
pipe in mouth, puffing away all day like the
smoke from mama's cooking place
the koboko in his hand to whipe any defaulter
brother! we work all day without pay
but I am not in this alone
Blacks from different climes, different tongues
we have come together in this table of
hardship
we are one by the reason of one sweat, one
tear
one death, one lot.

To the African Woman

An English Professor once said that writing is a special art, it is not something that can be learnt in school because it is a natural gift. He averred that it is the "Muse", the literary god  that chooses who to possess and not the other way round. He concluded by saying that every work is precious no matter how mundane it might look because it is not the writer who chooses the words, it is the god who dictates.

If this is so, then Ngozi Adichie must be completely possessed by the Muse. I admire her wonderful talents and the fact that she inspires me to pick my pen whenever I read her work, she is great.
Ngozi Adichie is a literary aficionado, the Hercules of the literary world, a woman of great talents, an African woman indeed.
I particularly admire the names she gives her characters, "ifemelu, kambili..." It makes me proud being an African.
Africa is so blessed.
I pray more talents be discovered and appreciated in our land, Amen!

A Slave's Song

You call me a monkey and spit on my face
You teach your littles to call me ugly
You shout and rave and shove and push
But still, White Lady, I know who I am

You tell your whities "the negroe is dirty"
You ask me to cook then laugh me to scorn
You give me your dirties to wash and to dry
But still, White Lady, I am who I am

This skin you call ugly, White lady
In the Sudan, maidens jitter at the sight
This round face you call a monkey's
Nsongo looked into it and gave me her soul

This back you have kissed with long deep sours
It bore bags of palm fruit from the farmland and back
And when little droplets crease its face
Young maidens do not hold it, they
Come swooning like horny Queen bees

These hands you call lazy, weak and frail
These same hands, they tilled the community soil
These legs you say are too hairy and black
These same legs, White Lady, won me some battles

You call me a monkey and spit on me
But still, White lady, I Know who I am.