Oki Kehinde Julius writes

TELL MAMA.
.
tell mama,
even if her saggy nipples
have deprived our kwashiorkored tongue
from sucking the milky breast of existence....
fire the catapult of beckon to her,
with the caress of two hot palms
to foot her wrinkled feet
into the calmly tattered shoe of the dove.
.
tell mama,
this ugly 'make up' of misfortune
she caused to scrub away
the signature of beauty from our shackled face
is not a smelly fragrance reason
to consent to our faked frailed fate
to fetch the teary waters of mishap
with the cataclysm bowls of calamity
from the river bank of her eyeball
that metaphors the flowing stream of river niger.
.
tell mama,
to patiently rest her chagrin liver
on her fleshy fiesty kidney.
even if her careless thumb picking of a 'horse-band'
had caused her eye son
a journey to a nightmare
with an empty stomach.
.
tell mama,
to start kissing together
the lips of these firewoods,
for a marriage communion
beneath the buttock of the pot.
for these idle barns and baskets
that glory under the roof of emptiness
will soon harvest for our starved oesophagus
appetizing spicy grains and tubers
which will surely amnest the militant intestines
that crave armageddon wars
bequeath the wrestling ring of our belly.
.
tell mama africa,
to stop quenching our chronical thirst
with this teary salty fluid of hers.
for if we truly need salt
we'll paddle down to the sea-sore.
tell mama,
to stop percussioning
the melody of her heart beat
for our feet are now weak
to dance to the tune of hardship
.
tell mama africa,
to throw a steeling spanner
to this bicycle of worries and nerves...
for we await the solar king
which will visit our catastrophe soil
in the subsequent drop of morning dew.
we await this blooming day
that will bring for us
the warmth of the scorching sun
which will suck dry
our wet watered garment
which our ugly fate had soaked
with the tears of misfortune...
but before then,
help me tell the mother of africa
to start folding the lines
creator laced on her fleshy cheeks
with an evocative cheerful smile.

 
  The Sun God -- Disegnini Brutti

Oki Kehinde Julius writes

AFRICANS ARE NOT BLACK
 

In heaven's cradle, creation potter painted Our clay with the gloss of black,

Moulding us into the shape of fame, reflecting the transparency of
beauty through Our complexion.
We were crafted from the beautiful stone that birthed Lucifer the mysterious Morning Star,
With Our appearance standing as the significance and representation of God's statue image on earth.
.
In mentality and creativity, Africans are not black.
Complexion only cheated us, masquerading our skin with the coat that is dark.
Tales of "Black Monkeys" name that pierced Our beauty with daggers of uncertainty
Must henceforth be blunted with this knotty appraise that "Black Is Beautiful".
.
Education had been swinging its legacy for ages on the orbit of Africa.
Religion and cultural heritage was her empire's breath, even before oxygen was discovered.
Her womb conveys great Men and Women of potential and diversity,
Whose footprints do not leave the mother earth without engraving on it the symbol of impact and existence.
.
African colour should never be the reason why We should be associated with black,
For pointed nose White Men's skins  are not truly white as snow.
Do not regard black African as a devil incarnate, because Satan put on a black coat,
For White Men too are not saints because God of purity put on a white fettled cassock.
.
Must we threaten ourselves as original inferiors
To White Men, who can't survive without Our mineral resources and oil?
Our endowed soil flows petroleum, bitumen, all along with gold,
With bananas, nurturing groundnut, cocoa and tobacco.
.
Africa empires are not black,
They are like a bitter kola, whose outside is black and inside is white.
Never regard us as a monkey, for we do not beg banana from you,
We are the beautiful black creature whose integrity is not black. 

Oki Kehinde Julius writes

THE LOST SHEEP.
 .

I was once a Sheep

Who got lost in the jungle,

Cajoled away by the flattery of the beast,

Without harkening to the warning of the bell jingled.

.

The Herdsman was busy blowing his horn

To win back all Sheep who were lost,

In that deaf ear the warning cinch to sound,

Giving myself for the perpetrator to crush. 

.
Shepherd ran from pillar to pole,

In search of the lost Sheep that was away,

The Sheep which roamed about ignoring the road,

Keeping itself purposely at bay.

.

The ship was sailed,

To the sea and to the lake. 

Paddle stick drowned and swimmed,

In search of the prodigal Sheep,

.

Wandering about enjoying the guilty pleasure, 

Making its wearer hot under the collar, 

Forgetting he was a Fish brought out of water,

Soon curiosity will kill his cruel Cat.

.

The Shepherd kept crying over the spilt milk,

Sheep busy barking up the wrong tree.

His conceit the Jungle King craved to seduce,

Not knowing there awaited him a danger in disguise.

.

The Lion roared, 

In wake of his hungry belly,

Persuaded the Sheep to the tower,

To make the best of friends of him.

.

Even if it takes two to tango,

Exclude the Lion and the Sheep.

My heart fell for its deceit,

Grinding its molar teeth on my bone.

.

The Shepherd was ready for the ransom,

To salvage the lost sheep from sanction,

Sheep had added to the injury an insult,

Taking its liberty with a grain of salt.