THE MASSACRE

(An Anthology of Historical Events and Cultural reflections)

by

Dooga Daniel Vershima

1

THE MASSACRETo those who died in the massacre Your days were numbered In a great number That history should tellOf what your blood offered.

Today, we weep and weeping always Is the state of our minds.How can we forget?But for those that hold the armTo give us alms they would not,But it is their joy Plunder the helpless.

God, what a mess!

To those who died in the massacre,What price, what price can they pay,To say you are redeemed?Was it you, when Jesus said “No stone shall sit on the other?”

Today we mourn youTomorrow history shall tell

Of what your blood offered. There are so many orphans in the landThe land that boosts the stomach care.How will they say,That not out of envy of the prosperity,The prosperity of your sweatThat they came,To plunder?

Will they ever eat of your labour?Will they ever drink of your sweat,Again?O, sweet souls slashed on a sunny day.To them it was the joyTo tear and drink of your blood

2

And smoke of your burning housesAs if they were menThat stood in their way.

The nation weeps,The people groan,The nations weep.What a pain to unleashOn a people without arms Is this the nation that I love?Where will I go?

To those who died in massacre,The shame is not yours,To die is to live,But the blame on thoseThat plundered in distaste and hatredAs if they waited for:“It’s time! Go and Do it!”The nation, that bites Its rib

To those that died in the massacre,What price would they have paidTo be enoughTo the yearnings of the throats ofBlood suckers.What price will they have paidTo satiate The yearn of the throats Of blood suckers?Bloody blood suckers.

DOOGA DANIEL VERSHIMA12TH NOVEMBER 2001(In memory of those who died in the 22nd October 2oo1 Zaki-Biam Massacre)

3

BEAT A DRUM

Beat a drum, beat a drum, beat a drumLet it sound ti-TUM-ti , ti-TUM-tiAs the heart poundsA-grip-cha-a-grip-cha-a-grip-cha-a-gripAnd as time ticks away,Tick-tick, tick-tick, tick-tick,One, two, three, four, five…And yet still here.

Nigeria is forty-one,And they say,“A fool at forty, a fool forever”.

But rejoice, and let’s rejoiceOver the fooleryFor careful thoughtsBring but sadness, as doth Bush and Lad

Let the world move onAs we swim and trot ashoreWE SHALL NEVER be in Sheol.

Daniel Dooga12th October 2001(In memory of one month after September 11 and Nigeria’s attainment of 41years in 2001)

4

VANITY, ANOTHER VANITYIt is true, Solomon once wroteThat vanity of all is vanityTo see it’s like a word a blokeMay write, to give out his sheer charity.

Yet when the day passes on andThe sun goes to sleep, it’s a moment pastTo note and to take a new standThat time is but flying out and so fast.

To yourself held in a viceWhich cannot but strangle your life’s effort Is not the best, and a hard priceTo pay, and live on to what one affords.

To say it’s a moment long whichWell spent, could have been everyone’s wish.

DOOGA DANIEL12th November 2001

AS IF THAT’S NOT ENOUGHTo tear and to plunderIs their courage to liveYet a people of no armsThey come to plunderOrphans and widows to live.To give them, not the almsTo turn round to rapeOrphans and widows of the landAll is not the act of the apeWho does not know judgment shall stand,As if that’s not enoughBut we stand to say it’s enough.

DOOGA DANIEL

5

20th November 2001

WARA conflict at baseGoes a long way to ageAnd terror’s nightmareIt would be; says the sage,“For TERRORISTS, no holidays”.


ILLUSIONThe day wakes you upTo God, “well done”For the last day’s goneTo the world, on topThat you feel you areAs the day’s job begins6

And the birds call their kinsTo tell where they are.To you it’s the joyTo see a new sunAnd feel like a sonUntil you start the toilYou never thought of the yearnings That would never endTough as you try to saveFrom the meager portion’s earningsEven for self so difficult to fendTo others, nothing in the safe.


A HARD TALE-TELLEveryone says:I know what I wantA long way to goWill his mindAnd then his opinion changesTo flow with the windAs if to sayThe best is yet to come.“I know what I want”Is a hard tale to tellAnd say,“I know what I want”


7

IKOOR I KPEN HEMBE AMARKape ve kaan la,“Ikoor i kpen hembe amar”Or ka a lu gaSe gba vaan Via wam alu yoMa m nenge imba ne ga.“Ikoor I kpen hembe amar”Mo kpa m rumun,Ikoor ikpen hembe amar.

Er a or dedooEr nan lu her nea-yange u luga yo“Ikoor I kpen hembe amar”.

Mtswenem doo ze,Via wam,Kpera kohol moTema imongo ne wasaarKporom kohol moSe uhar, ikangegh shioTema imongo vende mzungu.Via wam alu herMa m nenge imba ne ga“Ikoor i kpen hembe amar”

Wanngbian vine i dooEr u va luga yo“Ikoor i kpen hembe amar”

Mo yo m lan vinen tsoKpa dem m vineDe m vine, de m vine keraIkoor i kpen hembe amar

Shighe za tsoKpa me fe vinen yoMa ve lu yilan mo…Via wam

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Kporom koholom,…Via wamTema imongo ne sagh’yolKporom kohol moSe uhar, se utarVenda ijungwenDoo u ma se lu imongo“Acho u kpen hembe fan ishor”

VERSHIMA DOOGANovemba 20 2001TO THOSE WHO SERVE AND FEEL THE SERVICE To those who serve and feel the serviceLet it be a blessingThat hard as it may feelIt’s a fulfillment of timeThat which one obeys, butThe clarion call.The joy of it allIs when one shall tell Of what one saw and did not see,Of what one heard but could not hear.

There are voices in the breeze,That blow from the Atlantic,There are whispers of voicesIn the breeze that flow from the Sahara.

Beware brother,To know the truth from the untrueAnd to be on the safe sideWith those who serve and feel the service.

DOOGA DANIEL12 November 2001

9

THE MAN WITH LIVERThe man get liverNo be smallA beg, e get liver Like a desert lionWey im be.

Laden get liverA beg, no be small.

The more noise Bush go makeThe more noise im too go de make,Wallahi, the man get liver.Him own na original shakara for bodyDeath for body.Yet na noise we go de makeThe man get liver,Like a desert lionLaden get liver.

Daniel Dooga20th November, 2001

TO MY WEDDING SISTER

Be quiet in your husband’s house

10

And be his donkeyBear children for himWho will destroy his wealth,They are his monkeys.

Daniel Dooga8th December, 2001

A DISPLEASING SIGHT Passing through the left-overOf homes badly wreckedIs like a seditious freckledAftermath of an Egyptian Passover.

To be seen in quietudeOf the worst of human heartsThat partook and played the partsThat have been placed in solitude.

It’s a bad sight enoughThat would bleed the heartAnd raise volcanoes of the earthMakes it worse even for the tough.

The sight that gives the heart woundAnd that, to heal, it won’t.


11

ECHOESIt’s the boom-boom that we heardThe scurry-scatter of feet and fleet.Voices heard from afar of attacks and counter attacksPlaced on enemy and on the enemy of the enemy.

What shall we say of allBut of the dangers that befallA people placed part-a-partWith whirlwind and foster hostsWho call themselves friendsAnd yet are on the other side foes?

Calm down brothers, to seek for the lostAnd gain upon time what is ours.For time, only time will healThe wounds of tortureAnd quieten the echoes ofThe boom-boomAnd the fire scarsTo our houses.

The say “fish out”Their fish out is a boom-boomOn a people so armlessAnd very harmless.

Turn there, turn hereTo see for yourself,Who would go fishing?On a river less landWith a gun for a hook?

“Fish them out”An echo from Aso*…A deliberate echo.

12


THE FATHERLESS BABYIt the church was inI sat with a mood uncertain There, sat in my frontA woman no man she would claim;A baby, on her shoulder slung.This, it was a beautiful baby boyHis cheek, epitome of good feeding,Face, angelic that he wore.The image of beautyTrapping my instanceAnd locking my roving eyesAs they scanned the boy of fateA good face in possession of eyes,Eyes as white as snowAnd faint blueWith good regard,The eyes would tell, orAsk, like those of a manAs if to say, “Who am I?

And who is daddy?Mummy can’t tell”.

This, thus caught as if in a tranceMy emotions entrappedTo say sorryTo who has fallen in the course

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He did not cause.

Daniel Dooga14th December, 1986IN LOVESeldom in loveThe comic surge of persuasionsFoolish moves of unrecognized emotionsEntangled with tragic leave.Seldom in loveBefore my eyes there isBut every wretch as if a knaveA girl full of desire yet to be niceThough to say you’re niceBy the power of CubitTo tell what it may beThus when your arrows shotThe poles so drawnWould shootThus the foolish girl shotAs if drawn to fellAnd are you foolishTo be downCircumstances of love unbearableUnbearable it is to love.Unbearable it is to the dove.

Daniel Dooga19th June 1985

14

MY LOVE IS UNQUENCHABLESo I would say,It is hard to loveReasons best known to heartFor the heart a cave of many chambers and wallsSo many secrets hidden and shut to the outside worldThat no prodding would prove And the spirogyra removed.

The charm, to meOne would sayNothing to take homeFor the price unworthy to payThat showers of torrentNo matter how heavy it would pourWill quench my love.


THE LOST LOVEAmidst manyLike an apple fruitPicked by the lonely Peter For sweet joy and company

15

That it would beLike a sweet appleFor the lonely PeterAnd yet to be tastedBy lonely Peter.How far, how deepHow sweet it would beFor lonely Peter,,Oh lovely apple,Snatched by the hangers of lifeIn the jungleWhere the strongLive by might,The feeble by care and instinct.“Oh my lovely apple”Cried the lonely Peter “Is it a love lost?And so soon?”

Daniel Dooga8th March 1994

TRANSITIONThe rains have stoppedYet it is cold, cold.Chilled to the bonesAnd it’s dry season.The green grasses wearing a wet coat of dewAs if kingly,Feeling happy that it is cold.The giant elephant grassesBowing to worshipBending to kiss the wet dry crust.

And as if in a heart-to-heartThe sparrows converge and converse;The kites sing and praise, welcoming,Welcoming the dry season,As if to say,“Chicks, beware, a season has come”.

How happy the grasses are

16

To have swallowed bowls of water,Last night, it was the galloping and scattering rains.

How happy the birds areFor their nests will no longer be blown by the night rainsMen and beasts; anxious that the rains may stop,All praying for their swollen, damp habitats.

How happy the birds areAtop the sober and sullen locust bean trees,Tree leaves sullen and heavy with dew,As if mourning the death of the rains,Their beloved…

But alas, the dry season, more harshAnd unfriendly than the damp, wet of swollen roots,Of soil and plants of the rains;Fire comes burning the cold old sick and unhappy grass.Dry season, a friend and fiend.

It is cold and dryBut suddenly it is hot, hotHot and dewyHot and blowingAs if in an oven.Dry season is tired and sick, sick and tiredAnd like a transitionThe winds welcoming the ashy damp air of the AtlanticThe ashy damp air of the new rains.

Dry season is dead.

Daniel Dooga27th January, 1996

MY DEAR BOTTLEMy dear bottle…hic

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Most times we haveTo commit murderOr its kind thereof.Most times it becomes but necessaryTo kill to survive.

I can see as you do…hicYou do weep, so profuselyYou do weep…hic;Most have gone your wayDown the deep ditch of our dry throats.Yesterday, it was your brother…hicThirty-three, nicknamed “Double Three”…hic

a.k.a. THREE-THREEThe day before yesterday it was your uncle…hicThe ultimate lager… GulderSee how badly he was smashed.

Oh, my dear bottle…hicCome to think of itThe bellowing of the ox…hicNever will it alter the rites of sacrifice.

Your weeping,Your drops of tearsOnly urge on the deep ditches of our dry long throats.

Let’s smash youAnd feel the triumph of it.

Daniel Dooga28th December 1998

DEPTH OF KNOWLEDGEThere are realities and yet

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There are complex realities;The depth of knowledgeIs like bottomless a pitEach fall takes you deeper…Deeper…deeper and deeper stillOpening up the mind Like spikes on old wounds,Wounds which bear no scaldsThe scalds that are probed dailyBy those spikesCreating more pain than everBecause they cut deeperDeeper…deeper and deeper still.

There are realities and againThere are more complex realities.You do want to out,Take a step forward,And more shall you see.

It is grief and bondageAnd quite a blindnessThe mist of Ignorance holds,For knowledge, the deeper you moveMore sweet and profound it becomesAnd ignorance, what a shallow plateIt would be To remain on the surface.There are realities and there are realities,Take a step forward and find out.

Daniel Dooga28th November 1998

19

OUR SONGTime so long in our struggle,A struggle to go forwardAnd never to get backwardYet we slide backwardBut we want to move forward.

Ours is a diverse unityWe are a people, a nation,Born out of timeTo live with tideThrown into an abyss of craze To live as others doWe little time to master our stepsAnd we have gone with the windNot knowing our left and right.

Now, the world is mad on usFor moving out of step.

We hold onto the strands of lifeThe life, cherished life.Others fight and live so lingOthers fight and die so fast.Yet we want to live,The life that is full of confusionsLiving in strangulations.

The tide is so strong and fastAs if fleeing from ferocious fire of a fierce force of a lion.

Therefore, I callBrothers, I call,A call to fight our hardshipsA fight to surviveTo fight the strangulations,The fight, a heroic cultureA fight that must be won.

Victory shall be oursVictory ever sought by our forerunnersVictory that shall give us hope

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Victory that shall give us peaceVictory that shall give us unity.

This is a plea and pledge of faithForward and progressBrothers and sistersOurs is the lifeFull of loveSisters, brothers, there must be love.Love shall unite our idealsTo build the nation so vastTo build a nation so big.

That, has been our yearn and zeal,It’s love that will make strong our heartsThough the task so hard and strongShall come crumbling at our feet.

Our fall has never been our endLet’s start where have risenLet’s march onto the endFor it is time we had reasoned.

In the end our song shall beVictory, victory forever.Long live fatherland.

Brothers, sisters, that has beenOur song,A song to call

Our integrity must standOur song, long live NigeriaOur song, long live father land.

Daniel Dooga25th August 1998

21

STATISTICS; STOMACH LOGICZero, zero, oneZero, one, zeroOne, zero, zeroZero, zero, one-over-two (without)But worst stillZero, zero, zeroWhat logic…What an experience…Can we survive?

Daniel Dooga31st May 1991

GOOD AND BADGood is goodBad is bad,But when they meetIt becomes difficult to split.

Humour and humanThey are friends and foesBound with passion and illusion

Waist to headWaist to toesThey are the sameBound to materiality of realityThe reality of existence.

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Daniel Dooga1st February, 1989

SOME…Any, what, how, where, one, two, three…Someday, somebody somewhereWill do something about it.Some… a good word,It’s something, somehow.

Some statement made bySomebody sometime ago.Anyhow, somehow, the statement clingsBut what it will be, how it will beNobody knows.But…Someone, some person, one, two, three…Will knowAnd will do something about itSomehow, sometime, something, someoneSomebody , somewhat, somewhere…

Daniel Dooga13th May 1990

REFLECTIONSSoit qu’il est plus âgé de moiSon métier est de penser de toi.Toute foi, un de vousEt puis de moi et tousLa sincérité dépend sur l’actionD’humanité a toutes occasionsFaisons l’art de penser

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Sur métier minceur.Toutes des choses quand mêmeAux jours qu’on s’amèneSur les points mathématiquesSont trouves sympathiques.Au monde de notre jourTout le monde prend son tour,Pour quoi faire l’âge d’un hommePour manger la pomme ?La facilite de journéeEst sommée par les annéesA la façon d’un métierEst comme l’invitation de tiers.

Mon. Mauvaisle 5 novembre 1990

NOTRE MONDE EST BELNous vivonsDans un principe de cercle.Le monde est belMais la terre est vicieuse.Toutes les images se mélangentElles ne cèdent jamais.Tout le monde les regardeComme les spectacles d’un jeu,MaisToue le monde a les mains salesSoit qu’il les laveAvant de toucherN’import qu’oi qu’il s’agitParce qu’il est pur,

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Nous nous le laveronsAvant de le toucherParce qu’il est bel.

Daniel DoogaLe 17 décembre 1990

IFANOr-apir-ashe tom yange ve-o“ma m nenge oo!”Or’kyur zer beke ga!Or imande wa ima korom iyol oo!

(Tiv Traditional)

DESTINYI am like a ringImportant as a kingEverybody wears meEverybody feels me.I fit well like a clothMen, women… both.

I defy and deviate DeterminationNobody changes my decisionEither by trial or by prayer

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I am an adamant playerAlways controlling the gameAnd unbreakable like a rubber cane

Daniel Dooga13th November 1990

MY COUNTRY, OUR WORLDStanding aghast among the dark woods, even the roses and lilies.Ugly yet beautifulQuite beautiful and innocent,Her figure shadow-castsLike lonely deadwood by the road side.Yet lively with blood and water.

She was raped in the field like a lonely virgin of the landBy a leper.

Now, she is pregnant,She labours over days.

The birth, the birth of a sicklier,bastard

Who grows to spread the wild fire of epidemicsAll over the land.

Quite an ugly sightThe bastard’s father yet to claimAnd until the rapist of a father Is made to claimThe plague, We suffer the consequencesOf the sin we did not partake.

Daniel Dooga21st November 1990

26

Kabiyesi don turn fisherman From Abuja, he shoutedWith the a voice of an angry scarecrow“Go and fish them out !”I say, “Mh, Oga don turn fisherman abi wetin?”Boom! Boom! Like the mortal sound

Gbigin! Gbigin! Boom-boom…!Na so we de hear From north, south, east and westGbing! Boom!I say, “Oh! Na how many fish Oga don catch?”My neighbor talk say,“E reach two-fifty.”I say, “Ah Kabiyesi go chop tire o, e be like say fish don real scarce forAso*.”

On 23 of the last ‘mberFish come catch Ige.Kabiyesi go Ibadan come tell them say,“Go and fish them out”I say, “Oga Presido de chop fish o!”

Dooga Daniel

27

29th December 2001

GUARDED BY A HOLY LANLADYAll day long I would remainIn my room to count the days,In time of work with little pay,That was to be done in all pain.

For me to leave the abodeFor a minute to say “I need a break”Even to say “I need a steak”Is like a crime to a fly to be rode.And so all day long I would remainIn silence to read and read and readAnd so my brain would over feedOn letters in books that people have lain.

Soaked in all ideas that would a dry wood twistEven with less pain to think of what to doAnd as there is nowhere to coolAnd it pains my hands as they fold into fists.

Oh God, to think I would be holyNot to leave my sanctuary for a break Not even to say, a trek to takeIs all time wasted in a major folly.

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And at the end crime and sinSo would they take their fillIn an empty moment the tillTill the mind looks like a bin.

All is the folly of being guardedBy my holy land lady who seems retarded

Daniel Dooga6th January 2002

THE ARMLESSHe that is armless Is also alms lessIn fact, if possibleHe needs almsMore than arms.

Daniel Dooga23rd October 2001COMPANYI am but a tenantI’ve a companyThey are my tenants.Rent, they don’t payThey parasite on my scrubs

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Character so cockroach likeThat I would but despiseAs Al Hakim would make Them to live,Decent in their wayAs humans do to emulateBut sheer imitationCorrupting their originalityI would but live alone,But it’s a companyThey are to me.

Daniel Dooga5th May 1990

JEUDI MATINJe me suis levé,Après avoir fait mon toilait,Je suis reste près de ma porteEn debout ;Pour voir quelqu’unQui va me dire « Bon jour ».Je n’ai vu personne,Quel mal matin !

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Ensuite,J’ai vu une petite jeune filleJe l’ai dit« Bon jour ! »Jamais qu’elle ma répondu.Quel malheur !

Mon. MauvaisLe 28 juillet 1988(Chambre numéro 19, Makeri Hall* L’école normale supérieure de Katsina-Ala)

MERCREDI SOIRJe me rappelPour écrire un mot.Aujourd’hui c’est jeudi.Hier soir __ je me suis levé __C’était après un sommeilPour me faire aiséJ’oublie de fermer la porte,La porte de notre grand chambre,Chambre numéro dix-huit,Quartier de trop beaucoupLe grand chambre des étudiants masculinsA l’École secondaire SuperiorDe Katsina-Ala.En-secouchant,un homme L’homme(c’est un vieux étudiant de troisième année)

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Il demeurait prés de le porteComme le porte guideIl m’attaque…Disant qu’il y avait des moustiquesQui entrait toujours,Au lieu de fermer la porteIl m’attaque.

Voici un problèmeIl était descenduContre mon appartementSur mon appartement Avec la forceComme le lion,Comme le vent de pleuvoir.

Il était rompu mon appartement totalement,Voici le problème.

Monsieur MauvaisLe 28 juillet 1988

LES BATIMENTS INHABITABLES« Pas d’appartement, pas d’école !Pas de partition, pas d’école ! »Les étudiants chantaient.Quelle bruit, quelle animation,Quelle manifestations ! Venant de Makeri*Jusqu’au Festac*DernièrementTout envers Apah*Ensemble qu’ils chantaientAvant huit heure au soir, l’école était ferméeAvant mars,Directeur était change.

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Tout le mondeToutes des chosesÉtaient échangesMisaient en confusionMême pour les moments de reformation.

Voila le doyen,Lui aussi pourrai courir.

Quelle manifestation,Ensemble qu’ils chantaient« Pas des appartements, pas d’école ! »Quelle logiqueQuelle manifestation.Voila le changementAu revoir l’oppressionBien venue la liberté.

Monsieur Mauvais

KA WE’ TSONGO IBEMAOR NAN…Kaa ase yoo,Ka wea tsongo ibemaor;A kpaa u kwase…

Tiv tsongo wanWan u Oba, Oba BabaKpaa un kwase

Kpaa un kwaseKpaa un kwase Kua tswar.

Nenge aseKa’pe ikaa i lu ne,Nenge ase

Se tsongo abumaior…Doo ve nuur mimi,Se tsongo ibumeor.

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Kpa ka kwagh gaA hile nuur hereghDoo wen nuur tso

A hille nuur hereghUn’va kule tso se nengeUna kule sha ‘hie.r

Vershima Dooga

MY QUESTION IS…Why, tell me why,Tell me why,Why I can’t live A solitude life,When all the people Around me are aggressive?Why?Tell me why?

Daniel Dooga12th December 2001

34

ROUND-ABOUT-TURNIt is a pity,Oba called us to a fight A figh to disarm To disarm corruptionA practice so ancient with a people.

In a bid To quench a burning fireHis men went to the quarry With axes and shovelsTo disarm a common enemy,The hostile group.

Their blood spilt,Their hairs burnt,Their bones crushed,Their homes looted,Their mothers humbled, Their sisters raped and defiled,Their wallets looted too,With hands behind the giver and the taker,And weapon held in the otherA weapon to crush held in the other.

It is a pityOba called us for a fightAnd the more he jerkedThe more the nail entered.

Else how would he say,And what would he say,To see the fighter’s hand

35

Behind himAnd weapon held at abandonThe weapon of fight held at abandon,At bayTo take crumpled green leafFrom the high way runner?

This is a fight At a right-about-turn


MY DAYS, MY FEELINGSWhen I wake up on SundayI feel high, so highAs if on top of a hill.Monday takes me to another level,Like one may sayLittle down the top.

Tuesday is quite low.Wednesday, right in the heart of the valley.

When I wake up on Thursday I see myself on the other bank of the valley.Friday, I begin to look at base of the hill,And even further.

Saturday, I am as well ascending.Then Sunday comes again Taking me to the top.

When I am on the bed on the night And dawn of Sunday,

36

I look at another Sunday that will come,It looks so highSo very high; that Sunday that is in the futureSo far away.All the days in betweenSeem to undulate.There is a hill This side,The same hill on the other sideWith days like treesPlanted from stage to stage,Level to levelA beautiful sight it seems,A beautiful sight it is.Displayed in landscape, so unending.

That is how I feelWhen I take a look at the days in week.


Memoir: To my dear motherI remember, I used to stayAs people would like to sayWith my dear motherWith nothing to bother About what I would doWhat would I do?

37

One day I had to leave the houseAnd never to think of my spouseIt was a sorry attemptTo say my room is well kemptFor mine was always to sitAnd wait for what would be fit.

But now, all needs to be doneIs a story well goneThat what I may do andWhat I have to understandNo more a problem at heartBut how to live on earth?

Let the earth agreeNot by so hard a decreeBut within the limitOf great Nature’s permitNever exceed my hand’s strengthAnd never greater than it’s length.

For many people have triedTo let their lives be untiedIn the process to whichIf were their wish,To change their destinyWas only Mother Nature’s mutiny.

So, lives go on in vainAs it would be the painTo make all ends Everyone, does the spendsTo keep away sorrowNever to think too much of tomorrow.

For when the sun goes to shineWish yourself a day that’ll be fineFor it is so saidAnd not to be paidLife without joyIs full of toil

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For to recall all the thingsI’d be among the kingsTherefore, remember your daysAs the poet saysWith your dear mother Never a thought to bother.

Daniel Dooga18th February 2002(On the occasion of delayed allowie*)

THE STRANGE SLOGANIn OshogboA village on the westWhere the east, north and south meet,A land, said to be a living springYet to the visitors as Dry as sand of the desert,To the visitor where nothing springsThere is a saying,Quite popularLike a sloganSaid to the wearers of The dead green khaki“A – j – u – w – a – y – a!Spend this money!”

And this saying, like a jokeRings hot and wild, even wideLike a bell in the churchBehind the lodge.

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It si once heardBut to the heart, heard foreverA resound like early morn cooingOf a happy dove

A - j – u – w – a – y – a, spend this money!

Some words,Said easily, simply and cheaplyIs a painful soundTo the ear of those that hear.Painful like a dirty slapOn the cheek of a hungry childOn a hot noon.To the stranger,To whom nothing springs.The strange slogan.


MY MOTHER’S CHAMELEON CHILDMy mother’s son is livelyThat is, today, he is livelyTomorrow you see him frownAs though he’d turn brown.

It is like madness of the timeTo see him even smileAs his smile would kill a fly

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A wift as if his feet were to burn,To where he had comeYet to know he ‘d comeIt’s another biteHard to fight

So his spirits get down lowAnd he would not flow.So, what’s there brother,That gives you so much bother?

Happiness and sadness are to youThings that will be tooNasty for comparisonUnder the light of the sun.

So, shun hatred And be not afraidFor life should be joyFor it’s the essence of toil.

Wave away sadnessBe a man of happinessFor some coloursDo make furrowsAnd would not fitAs they don’t benefitAlthough as a friend I’d tryTo bring joy to his heartLike the one never on earth.

But so he would turnS

Daniel Dooga19th February 2002.

41

ANXIETYEvery speaks of doing itBut time usually tells itOf how it will doneIt will really be fun.But time is really shortYet nobody pushes forth.Why, everyone should be pent up As if time already upAnd making you to hurry up?

Daniel Dooga19th February 2002

NOWADAYS, THE LAST DAYSNowadays Every day that passesSeems to draw me nearer home.I begin to look forwardTo when I will be home.Strange enoughWhen I first came hereI felt bad, really badFor being sent down hereBut now, I begin to regretWhy I should leaveWhen the time comes.

For the longer I stay hereAmong those who know so much

42

I begin to be awareOf their mightThinking, one dayI’ll beat them in their ways.But sorry, If were my makingI’d really like to try To fight it outOn them And with themTo win themIn their game,

Amen.


THE BEATEN-UP CHILDHe thought he was rightWhen he did itUntil the growling voiceOf the lionSo long, long concealedBehind the head of his fatherWas raised upTo support the shrill thunderOf the ape like mother,Then a dozen slashes of koboko*.“I’ll not do it again,* begged he,As he rolled and rolled.He can’t even rememberWhen he did itAnd what he did…

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“So what am I not going to do again?”Questioned his doubtful mind.

The time came again,He now could recallTo speak out of turnTo speak when elders spokeHe refused to speak.... out of turnHe still beaten up For nto denyingWhat he did not do.“So what am I really to doNot to say or to do any wrongAand cherishThe slashesAt noonAnd at nightWhen everyone is happyAnd laughing overThe evening mealOf ruam and cow headAnd I am being beaten up all the way”


AMONG THE MAD PEOPLEI am among the mad peopleA people so mad,You cannot predict their state.To speak is like prodding

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The well of bloodWith a rake stick.The rotten blood when stirredEmit the odour of deathSo it is with the people around me.Open your mouth to talk.Do not open your buca…To say you knowYour consciousness is guidedBy their tele-guiderTo smell the awareness in you Only to crush your soul.Your life is a dried leafIn their palmOnly to squeeze and twistAnd enjoy the rustle and crackle.To breath is criminalTo talk is suicideTo work Hades himselfAmong the mad peopleWho hope to claw your neckWith their long nailsJezebel is their mentor,She shall bowWhen she sees their emotions.It funny thoughTo think yourself a clean needleTo be smeared with the faeces of the tongue.Brother, be still… better be mute.

Daniel Dooga1st January 2000

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THE BURIAL OF A COCROACHTo me it seemsThat cockroaches listen notTo advices and words.This one, a notorious one,All the time roaming my abode.

It’s a routineTo see it chased out of door.Yet again, indoors would it beThe next day.On this dayAs of noteTo the kitchenWas I as a routine, to check,To note nothing is amissIn the pot of beniseedLies the body of brother cockroachDeep in on the coach of soupDown the drain it should goBut over the rail, the scatterThere is a scurry scatterThe cockerel, yes, the cockerel.Thank you cockerel, for the quick burial.

Daniel Dooga9th April 2002

REPENTANCEWhen a baby is stripedOn the back of her motherFor a while, she’d cryShe’d sob, she needs changeAnd change forever changes.

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You and I would alwaysAs it is, want change.

Change for the betterChange for the worseIn heart and in mind,In-spirit-and-soul.Even the body needs change.

When the three comeAnd culminate, the yearnSo strong it’d seem

It is change it seeks.

Repent soul brother,

For the good and for the bad.As for me changeAnd repent I’d always.To turn to the right and to the left.

Daniel Dooga29th October 2002

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FOR PURITYOur mother does not knowThat all her childrenAre children of torment.

It is supposed we all diedBefore our time,But we are still here.

The mourn of todayReminds her of yesterday.

Look, the red soil On the so called old graveLooks even fresher than today’s.

Father’s search for motherFor a wife Was too swift.He did not take careTo know of her impurity. This has led to ourContinual flow of stillbirths.

In the family, Everybody points accusing fingerTowards the false witches and wizards.

Where are they?

The children of father’s lineageAre cursed, beyond.And until mother is purifiedOur father’s lineageWill run into extinct.

Daniel Dooga4th April 2011

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THE MASSACRE

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