Wreaths for a Wayfarer

An Anthology in Honour of Pius Adesanmi

Nduka A. Otiono, Uchechukwu P. Umezurike

• Éditeur: Daraja Press
• Année: 2019
• ISBN:
  9781988832340
• Sujet: Littérature
• Sous-sujet: Collections littéraires africaines

I

WAYFARER

Scabha or The Sliding Door Operator

Sihle Ntuli

Scabha ^[1]

the way you personify the door,
shova imari ye phepha^[2]
the human counter,
the clinging
the clanging sound,
the change
the tiny silver pieces.

your palm on the door
the way you smash the door
the sound it makes,
the brakes,
the quantum halts
from all your panel beatin’,
industrial genre of music,
the door,
the dents you leave on
the door,
and so i ask
whose scars are these?

the way you let the commuter in
might you be,
a projection of the cold wind
drifting in,
from the door
steel slides on steel,
unfolding your folding chair
you are self-sacrifice,
for the love of
the clinging
the clanging sound,
the change
the more things stay the same.

and about those small spaces in between chairs,
does it hurt when your body must fit there?
as you sit stand, stand sit,
or does it hurt more
that this is how you make your living.

there are signs of strength
and there are signs of weakness
shoulder
tensing,
clenching,
pushing,
full force,
the sound
when steel slides on steel,
the door slams shut!

facial clench,
eyeballs close,
shut tight
tucked inside
voice sinks,
the whisper,
my fear,
of death,
the interior,
a twenty-two-seater Quantum,
of all the places
that it could end.

sliding door operator,

in truth, it was I
who opened your door
from the outside,
in that single instant
like a predator
the door swallowed me,
with a sound
made by steel
when it slides on steel,
a thud,
when the door slammed shut,
the door now behind me,
and with that
safety grabbed
from my hands
and given
to God.

gentle easing of the lids
the eyeballs
and when my eyes open
they find you

sliding door operator,

with your cold face,
your cold stare,
as cold
and hard
as cash.

the way you personify the door,
opening and closing
that sound
when steel slides on steel
the door slamming shut
a sound of finality,

sliding door operator

how do you keep so cool?
how do you remain unperturbed?
then it occurs to me
how you may already
be ready,
or could it be,
that finally
you are death.

---

1. isiZulu translation of door, also the colloquial name of the door man/taxi marshal responsible for operating the door and handling the money on behalf of the driver in a minibus taxi ↵
   
2. “shuffle the banknotes” phrase inspired by the Bongo Maffin song ‘Mari ye Phepha’ ↵
   

When an Iroko Falls

Iquo Diana Abasi

…in lieu of a wreath

When an Iroko falls,
the land trembles in awe,
young and old gather,
tell tales, not tall,
of might and stoicism,
admiration of a fine-ness
too glaring to be captured in words.

A fearless Iroko sapling lies prone,
the lips of this child are ill-prepared
for panegyrics, yet she attempts;
like teeth hard pressed to chew water,
like a babe learning to bathe,
she succeeds by washing the belly squeaky clean.

The spear was heavy but
you wielded it bravely,
piercing falsehood with precision
per time, who now will wield this lance?
whose humour will henceforth dispense
laughter and intent musing?

But who are we to complain
when the drumbeats stop
while the next step is suspended mid-air,
the next love letter to motherland,
but a rapidly cascading whorl
of thoughts, hopes, dreams.

Your sojourn did not end, wayfarer,
only your location and audience changed,
your roots sank far here, tendrils birthed courage,
but others rejoice in realms yonder,
for a fine human has returned to whence
he once sought leave to go share his gifts.

May your journey not end wayfarer,
till you are blazing light,
an unstoppable illuminant,
polished and clarified gem,
a true warrior,
swinging aloft in eternal bliss

How to Survive War in Nigeria

Iquo Diana Abasi

Order a beer and spiced meat,
watch the razing of whole villages,
shake your weary head,
shrug your secure shoulders,
wish the northerners well.

Four years post-Chibok
argue that it is a farce still,
propaganda from the opposition, to
undermine the government of your brother
from another tribe in the south.

Hear of flags hoisted in the North East,
claim this is karma, served hot,
for the death of your brothers and
sisters for decades on end,
in the name of religion.

Laugh off Mubi, Baga, Bama, Gwoza,
say ‘Na dem-dem, e no konsain us!’
flip the channel, seek Serie A, La Liga,
EPL & Champions league on Supersport,
order some peppersoup,

Write off Dapchi,
argue about Leah,
‘How are we sure the abductions happened’?
Claim it was all staged to make the
government appear to be working.

Shout yourself hoarse at the killing
of a Christian evangelist.
Raise hell only when churches
are bombed in the north, look away
when the victim is a non-Southerner.

Grimace at the execution of Leman,
Ask no one in particular
‘These people are still at it?’
learn some shaku-shaku,
keep the hustle on full throttle.

One half of Nigeria may be in a chokehold,
but you club hard and stay ‘woke’.
people may fear to travel or farm
from village to village, but for you,
life on cruise control is no adage.

I Wet the Earth, I Sing You Wreaths…

Fareed Agyakwah

March 10, 2019:
The world’s wide ears
Didn’t receive the sweetest
Feathers of news—
“Pius Adesanmi passes on.”

When decayed comets of pilots
Mistake aircrafts for vans
Such sad passing, Pius,
Without a goodbye kiss,
Without a last prayer,
Breaks the heart of the Earth.

Writer, scholar, educator,
The seed of your passing
Didn’t fall on the ripest
Soils of the heart.
“Pius Adesanmi passes on?”

When corrupt officials
Cut the corners of due diligence
Such salt-spilling, Pius,
Without a warm embrace,
Without a final handshake
Blinds the sight of the World.

However, we try to turn it,
The ear drum protests like a rifle,
Hearts bleed profusely like a sacrificed pigeon
On the sad news of meteoric passing.
“Pius Adesanmi passes on?”

Wayfarer, Payo de Pius,
Pius whose basket holds all waters,
Pius at the 47th parallel of handsomeness,
With some one hundred and fifty-six souls
You cross the Mediterranean of life
I wet the Earth; I sing you wreaths.

Harvest IV

Funmi Aluko

I am a message
Listen!
I’m Afuape
The message lies in the lyrics
Of primordial drumming
Lou...