A LETTER FROM A PRISONER
On Sunday noon
When the sun sprouted
Gleefully bold behind
The curtain maze
Four men-in-black
With a darkish pistol
Pressed forward
Towards my domicile
And on each head
Sat a peaked cap that
Harmonized with their garb.
And their brogans beating
Bleak on the gritty ground
I
Was at my domicile
In the frontispiece
Wearing a piece
Of grimace on my phiz
When they popped up
Like a twiggy panhandler
In Agbado-Market
Pleading for dough
With a pseudo grin,
"Sir are you...?"
"Yes, that's me, my name..."
With a doldrums phiz flared
"But, I am not Nelson Mandella."
They retorted sharply
With hoity-toity regards
Tucking their guns
"...we just want you
In our office now,
To spare no time,
No time to spare..."
My heart plunged with fear
And cold bled struck.
My mouth was heavy with silence
And eyes teasing the hands,
And eyeballed it clogged free
Like a despicable thief.
I was trailing behind them
Like a flagging dog.
I have no family.
Is this a cinema?
Or nightmare, just
'Pulsating' the strings
Of my mind,
Playing my heart
Like a timbre bass-guitar
'Oh, dream
Must be filming me!'
On the thoroughfare to hell
My mind flitted through time
I called to mind a well-off man
In the neighbourhood
Whom I pleaded to nibble
From his dining table;
He scared the wit off me.
And muttered, "GO AWAY
YOU POVERTY-STRICKEN,
JOBLESS MAN...!"
In the nick of time
I heard his sharp screech
Accompanying the blubbering-wind
Which called to my ears.
He came, flapping his tongue
While striding to my doorstep
Scooting sand into the thin air
With his longish, fatty feet.
With a confused voice,
He uttered words beyond his mouth
Could carry, "For not paying
Ears to your pleads,
You rather paid me by shivering
The mirrors of my SPORT-CAR;
That's worth millions of naira...?
YOU CANNOT OWN THAT TILL
YOUR LAST STATE OF MIND"
'I have not misheard'
I stood boldly still,
"I am a christian, dear brother
How can I do such evil deeds
In the sight of heaven's window,
He sees me even when
I spy my inwards..."
He, twice, flicked his
Two right five fingers
And said, "YOU WILL
SEE PEPPER TODAY."
In their calaboose
I was prison freed
And was tortured
To the state of death.
In the gasp of my breath,
I confessed still
"I DO NOT KNOW WHO DID IT
I ONLY SAW THE BROKEN GLASS
BROKEN INTO MY FEEBLE HEART."
Please.
Drink from my palm-wine
Bleeding heart
Do not take his words:
His mouth filthy clean.
'I gave a SILENT SCREECH'
"Can't you ask the robber
That peeped through
Our street last night...?"
They heard it.
At the moment
Face flushed
Hands drooped
(Their madness flushed)
And picked up with rage again -
I was tortured the more
I must
But plead guilty
I am innocent free
Who just lost my Job.
I remembered vividly
'THE RICH OWN THE WORLD
AT THEIR hefty FEET...'
My heart jolted.
Visiting Hours -- Alice Astell
On Sunday noon
When the sun sprouted
Gleefully bold behind
The curtain maze
Four men-in-black
With a darkish pistol
Pressed forward
Towards my domicile
And on each head
Sat a peaked cap that
Harmonized with their garb.
And their brogans beating
Bleak on the gritty ground
I
Was at my domicile
In the frontispiece
Wearing a piece
Of grimace on my phiz
When they popped up
Like a twiggy panhandler
In Agbado-Market
Pleading for dough
With a pseudo grin,
"Sir are you...?"
"Yes, that's me, my name..."
With a doldrums phiz flared
"But, I am not Nelson Mandella."
They retorted sharply
With hoity-toity regards
Tucking their guns
"...we just want you
In our office now,
To spare no time,
No time to spare..."
My heart plunged with fear
And cold bled struck.
My mouth was heavy with silence
And eyes teasing the hands,
And eyeballed it clogged free
Like a despicable thief.
I was trailing behind them
Like a flagging dog.
I have no family.
Is this a cinema?
Or nightmare, just
'Pulsating' the strings
Of my mind,
Playing my heart
Like a timbre bass-guitar
'Oh, dream
Must be filming me!'
On the thoroughfare to hell
My mind flitted through time
I called to mind a well-off man
In the neighbourhood
Whom I pleaded to nibble
From his dining table;
He scared the wit off me.
And muttered, "GO AWAY
YOU POVERTY-STRICKEN,
JOBLESS MAN...!"
In the nick of time
I heard his sharp screech
Accompanying the blubbering-wind
Which called to my ears.
He came, flapping his tongue
While striding to my doorstep
Scooting sand into the thin air
With his longish, fatty feet.
With a confused voice,
He uttered words beyond his mouth
Could carry, "For not paying
Ears to your pleads,
You rather paid me by shivering
The mirrors of my SPORT-CAR;
That's worth millions of naira...?
YOU CANNOT OWN THAT TILL
YOUR LAST STATE OF MIND"
'I have not misheard'
I stood boldly still,
"I am a christian, dear brother
How can I do such evil deeds
In the sight of heaven's window,
He sees me even when
I spy my inwards..."
He, twice, flicked his
Two right five fingers
And said, "YOU WILL
SEE PEPPER TODAY."
In their calaboose
I was prison freed
And was tortured
To the state of death.
In the gasp of my breath,
I confessed still
"I DO NOT KNOW WHO DID IT
I ONLY SAW THE BROKEN GLASS
BROKEN INTO MY FEEBLE HEART."
Please.
Drink from my palm-wine
Bleeding heart
Do not take his words:
His mouth filthy clean.
'I gave a SILENT SCREECH'
"Can't you ask the robber
That peeped through
Our street last night...?"
They heard it.
At the moment
Face flushed
Hands drooped
(Their madness flushed)
And picked up with rage again -
I was tortured the more
I must
But plead guilty
I am innocent free
Who just lost my Job.
I remembered vividly
'THE RICH OWN THE WORLD
AT THEIR hefty FEET...'
My heart jolted.
Visiting Hours -- Alice Astell
The naira is the currency of the Federal Republic of Nigeria, which, in 1973, was the last former British colony to abandon the pound sterling. It initially exchanged at 2 ₦ = £1. In 2008 the Nigerian Central Bank planned to issue new naira notes at a 1:100 redenomiation ratio, but the nation's president cancelled the plan. The naira was allowed to float in 2016, and traders expect the exchange rate to vary between 280-350 $US. Agbado is a village in Nigeria.
ReplyDeleteNelson Mandela was an anti-apartheid revolutionary leader in the Republic of South Africa. After serving 27 years in prison he was released in 1990 and elected president in 1994. Though he was awarded the Nobel Peace Prize in 1993 he declined election to a 2nd term in 1999. He continued to be involved in domestic and international issues until 2004, when he took a much less active role. He died in 2013 at 95, and 90 heads of state attended his funeral services.
Excellent poem!
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