Biafra of the mind

                                              Biafra of the mind is a wound like no other,

                                              A wound that from the beginning slumbered

                                              Unbeknownst, undisturbed, a pain referred

                                              For a time when it burns white- hot.

                                             It is children, us, born of our mothers

                                             And mothers not our own,

                                            Who were content to spawn an insidious suspicion 

                                            And nurture an all- consuming fear.

                                            We are after all a reminder of the reality of

                                            Happiness unattained, a beautiful horizon unreached.

                                            We are the poorer cousins of hope and promise,

                                            Beggars on the street hiding a crushing resentment. 

Freedom fighter

Through boom and bust,

Remain steadfast as a rock.

Through heat, haze and dust

And uncertainty’s mock,

Remain unwavering, undeterred,

For we travel the twilight zone

Of a throng confused and ill-prepared,

But Sitting pretty on power’s throne.

 Hold their views uncomfortable sway

The bit between their teeth, a stranglehold.

Our ideas are their ready prey,

The manner of hope’s suffering, a sad manifold.

Stand strong and shine those eyes already keen,

Prevail you must, what choice have we got?

Pray, do full justice to where you’ve been

And deliver lasting victory, sweet and hard-fought.

Ours is an unwieldy country

Ours is an unwieldy country.

Huge is our land mass, disparate are our peoples.

We are a multitude of vociferous tongues,

That wail a cacophony of philosophies

From the false safety of our gaggle of alliances.

We defend our corners with jealous zest,

Even as we search in the dark

For the light at the end of a dark tunnel of our hewing.

We metamorphose as life insists we must, and yet

We fail to bow to the demand of evolution.

Evolution comes at a price we are reluctant to pay,

For inherent in it is a demand

 That our beliefs must distil into a conviction

That redeems our mistrust and frees us from paranoia.

Hear Hear brother! Conviction calls us from the depths

Of mother country of troubled birth.

Hear Hear sister! Conviction demands we sing

A mellifluous song of hope to our children,

A song that exhorts to service and cheers to unity.

Asoebi

Asoebi is a dream, birthed into a world

Of ankara, lace and guinea.

 It is rich fabrics of sage green and royal purple,

And torsos sculpted for occasion,

Enveloped in spangled baby pink,

 Burgundy and burnt gold.

Asoebi are ideas that find wondrous expression

In diadems of fila and the crowning glory of gele.

It is that which achieves concretisation

In the thoughts and hushed conversations

 Of excited sisterhoods and neurotic mothers.

Asoebi is an explosion of celestial blue and dazzling azure

Brought into being by eager pockets

With furrowed brows.

It is the submission to iro and buba,

Tailored to the glory of curves

Elevated on Louboutins and the like.

Asoebi is the unflinching herald of uniform, family

And life’s close friendships…

It is the promise that rose red will again be embellished

With beautiful neck pieces, waxy smiles

And pouts haughty, as well as demure.