Identity Apples( political -paradox)

Identity Apples

I am a fat skeleton, resurrecting 
from the sad memories of dada 
and dark mysteries of animism 
I am Buganda 
I bleed hope 
I drip the honey of fortune 
Makerere; think tank of Africa 
I dance with you wakimbizi dance

I am Tanganyika 
I smell and fester with the smoke of African genesis 
I am the beginning 
Kilimanjaro; the anthill of rituals

I am the smile of Africa 
My glee erase the deception of sadness 
my tooth bling freedom 
I am myself, I am Gambia

When others seep with bullets stuck in their stomachs 
I sneeze copper spoons from my mouth every dawn 
I am the Colombia of Africa

I am the Cinderella of Africa 
Where mediums feast with the ghost of Kamuzu in Mulange trees 
Here spirits walk naked and free 
I am the land of sensations 
I am the land of reactions 
Coughing forex blues 
Squander mania 
I still smell the scent of Nehanda’s breath 
I am African renaissance blooming 
I stink the soot of Chimurenga 
I am the mute laughter of Njelele hills

I am Soweto 
Swallowed by Kwaito and gong 
I am a decade of wrong and gong 
I am the blister of freedom vomited from the belly of apartheid 
I see the dawn of the coming sun in Madiba’s eyebrows

I am Abuja 
Blast furnace of corruption 
Nigeria, the Jerusalem of noblemen, priests, professors and prophets

I am Guinea, i bling with African floridirization

I am blessed with many tongues 
My thighs washed by river Nile 
I am the mystery of pyramids 
I am the graffiti of Nefertiti 
I am the rich breast of Nzinga

I am Switzerland of Africa 
The rhythm of Kalahari sunset 
the rhyme of Sahara, yapping, yelping 
I am Damara, I am Herero, I am Nama, I am lozi, and I am Vambo

I am bitterness, I am sweetness 
I am Liberia

I am king kongo 
Mobutu roasted my diamonds into the stink of deep brown blisters 
Frying daughters in corruption microwaves 
Souls swallowed by the beat of Ndombolo and the wind of Rhumba 
I am the Paris of Africa 
I see my wounds

I am rhythm of beauty 
I am Congo 
I am Bantu 
I am Jola 
I am Mandinga

I sing of you 
I sing Thixo 
I sing of Ogun 
I sing of God 
I sing of Tshaka 
I sing of Jesus

I sing of children 
of Garangaja and Banyamulenge 
whose sun is dozing in the mist of poverty 
I am the ghost of Mombasa 
I am the virginity of Nyanza

I am scarlet face of Mandingo 
I am cherry lips of Buganda

Come Sankara, come Wagadugu 
I am Msiri of Garangadze kingdom 
my heart beats under rhythm of words and dance 
I am the dead in the trees blowing with wind,  
I cannot be deleted by civilization. 
I am not Kaffir, I am not Khoisan

I am the sun breaking from the villages of the east with great inspiration of revolutions 
its fingers caressing the bloom of hibiscus

Liberation!

Black Oranges

Xenophobia my son

I hear a murmur in the streets

A babble of adjoining markets

Your conscience itching with guiltiness like

Genital leprosy

Your wide eyes are cups where tears never fall

When they fall the storm wash down bullet drainsand garbage cities

ii)

Come nomzano with your whisper to drown,

Blood scent stinking the rainbow altar.

Darfur, petals of blood spreading,

Perfume of death choking slum nostrils

Slums laden with acrid smell of mud and

Debris smelling like fresh dungs heaps

Fear scrawling like lizards on Darfur skin

Kibera. I see you scratching your mind like ragged linen

Smelling the breath of slums and diesel fumes

The smoke puffing out through ghetto ruins is the fire dousing the emblem of the state

iii)

Belly of Zambezi ache with crocodile and fish

Villages piled like heaps of potatoes against the flankof eastern hills

Farmlands dripping golden dripping dew

Sunshine choking with vulgar mornings

Dawns yawning with vendetta filled redemption songs

Drums of freedom sounding fainter and fainter, blowing away in the wind

iv)

When streets rub their sleep out of their eyes

Villagers scratch painful living from the

Infertile patches of sand on this earth whose lungs heave with copper and veins bleeding gold

Ghetto buttocks sit over poverty. Kalingalinga

Corruption eating breakfast with ministers. Kabulonga,with shrill cries of children breaking against city walls

v)

Shire river tonight your voice rustled dry, like the scratching of old silk

Politicians grow everywhere like weeds

Land of Ngwazi. Yesterday crocodiles breakfasted on flesh

Owls and birds sang with designated protocol

Ngwazi your cough drowned laughters and prayers

Your breath silenced rivers and jungles

vi)

Mozambique, belief and gift of my poetry

Sweat wine poured to absent, long forgotten gods and goddesses

Soft kiss spent on golden virgins before they aged into toothless grannies

The rhythm of samora

Heartbeat of chimurenga

Drumbeat of Chissano

Today your once bright mornings blight in corruption. A social anorexia

  vii)

Abuja guns eat you more than disease

I loved you before you absorbed poverty as sponge soaking out water. Before rats chewed your roof

Before you conceived men with borrowed names and totems

Ghost of Abacha guzzling drums of blood and gallons of oil

Wiwa chasing shadows of babangida past delta of treasures

viii)

Buganda cruelty is a natural weapon of a dictator

Poor lives buried under rubbles of autocracy

Pregnant mothers with eyes gouged out by bullets , pushing their guts

back into their bellies

Luanda you are a roar of old trucks

A whine of motor cycles. A rumble of dead engines

ix)

America frying its fingers in oil pans of your kitchen

Where Europe fry, America roast

Angola. When you cough, America catches a fever

Angola! Quench my parched lungs with a spoon of oil

x)

I see the naked thighs of your desert hills

Barotseland  of Setswana

A servant positioned with trust

American green bloomed your desert shrubs

Your loyalty is sold to she who offers the next meal. Barotseland of seretse

xi)

Somalia

Your lips burnt brown with exposure of rough diet

You are muffled voice, cursed and drowned into deep silence

The smell of aged incense and stale coffee

A tune piped by the shepherd on mountainside, only to be half heard by and quickly forgotten by villagers

xii)

Ghana

The anthill of black seed

Coast blessed with gold

Once a young girl full of sap and strength

Once perfumed with richness and sacredness

You shared your salt and sweat from freedom

Today you a like a woman who sleep with a pillow between her legs anticipating a miracle of man

xiii)

Coast of ivory

I see faces tight as skin of drum in moonlight

Ivory Coast. Once the smoke and smell of human excitement

Tonight bullets burrow into your belly like rats into sacks of Thai rice

You are the broken pot we patch to put on shelf again.

Golgotha Episode

Ballot defecating shadows of hunger over

Poverty creased napkins of my mind

Slums farting anopheles into the gutters of my blood

Long departed hunters urinated bullets into iron uterus of

war tired peasants

giving birth to atomic bombs

and suckling grenades

Media wizards imbibing propaganda salami

and slogan pizza

Hunger mandraxed rabbis licking fingers after chalk dust noon meals

I am word dynamite fumigating corrupt economic bedbugs

sucking out the fertility of our sunshine

clouds of hungry bellies rumble with formulae

Sunrise with virus graffiti scribbled on its forehead

Moonrise with roaches corrupting its eczema eaten breasts

Bread buttered with tustiville blood, sanguages cheesed with

Darfur wounds

Gore dripping diamonds auctioned for flesh guzzling guns

Brown teethed nights grazing green mealies before fingers

of dawn caress vendetta wounded minds

Unrepentant Ngo bishops pimping vulnerables for fat cheque books, gong and bling

Greenback laureates double crossing peacecrats and warcrats in donor shebbens

Economic whores dipping their sperm-ducts in diplomatic brothels

Paparazzi gutters vomiting garbage of spray painted columns

Slogan dogs parodying Hiroshima farce and bag dad comedy

Greenhorns licking leftovers of propaganda braai packs after ballot arithmetic

Undersized zealots fitting political G-strings in springs of delimitation

Political morons mastering propaganda syllabus in their gimmick-

Tired memories.

I am poetic chlorine puritising political mental conveyor belts

from the crude oil of corruption

I am a metaphoric lotion peeling off eczema of the decade election hepatitis

My Painful Poetry

 
Its rhymes are of the poverty stripped widows in Liberia. 
Its symbols are of the slain cops freezing on the mortuary slabs of Gambia 
Its imagery is of freedom succumbing within bomb cry in Nigeria 
Its sound is of poverty shriveled breasts of mothers in Eritrea 
Its surprise is of hunger tortured children in Ethiopia 
Its echo is of war caused orphans digging for fortunes and future in rubbish dumps of 
Somalia 
 
My painful poetry 
Its connotations are of the weeping of ethnic tribes in Libya 
Its voice is of groaning stomachs of banks in Namibia 
Its tragedy is of sewage pipes gushing out disgusting contents in the streets of Zambia 
Its metaphors are machetes slicing wombs in the valleys of Katanga 
Its similes are of blood stained walls of sufferance in Tanzania 
Its alliterations are of genocides and atrocities in Rwandan corridors 
Its resonance is of butchers and slaughters in Burundian drives 
 
My painful poetry 
Its beat is of apartheid explosions in South Africa 
Its allegory is of the crying of the Povo in Zimbabwe 
Its satire is of the inking of villages in Mozambique 
Its irony is barter exchange of diamond and riles in Angola 
Its epitaph is the dying of the cultures in Algeria 
My painful poetry is painful and never beautiful

Dimples of Freedom

Dimples of mighty river donga, river

Sokoto flowing honey of liberation, dripping sweetness of decades

Of freedom harvest

Taraba and ekuku flowing with seasons coming after one another

Winters in tears and summers in blood

Dimples of freedom sing freedom

Freedom of the people, people and their song

The resonance of rhythm, rhythm of drumbeat throbbing

Tsaunin mainono, veins of tsaunin Kure, throbbing the heart of tsaunin ukuru

Rhythm throbbing under the feet of mothers and children pounding this earth sodden in oil and hope.

Dimples of freedom

You age with generations like baobab

The essence of villages and the resonance of tribes

Tribes singing embracing the dimples of silver moon

Singing one tune, in one tongue, sing boki mothers, rise mbumbe sisters

Sing bachere songs, dance the gavako dance

Dimples of freedom

You age with generations like banana trees

Kings of this land, i sing of you

My song of bones, shadows, stones, mist and smoke

Dimples of freedom

I sing of kings whose skin glow after the caress of coco butter

Their breath smelling the milk of coconut

I sing with modibo of gombe, obong of obioko, olu of Warri

I sing of you baban lamido, oba of Lagos

Dimples of freedom smile with olo of the olowo

Dimples of freedom

Smelling decades of light and stink

Enduring decades of nights and hope

Sleeping in decades of nightmares and dreams

Rivers gobe, ekulu and aba, rise for freedom

Your stomachs vomiting the sun of liberation, liberation

That crocodiles and reptiles be pregnant with the sun of liberation and

The moon of freedom

Dimples of freedom

On top of tsaunin kuki, tasunin shamaimba, doves and owls hooting

And cooing the dark of nights and newness of mornings

Dimples of freedom smile to the mountains of this land

This is my poetic grapefruit to the land that breakfasted

Omelette of bitterness and beetroot of sweetness

Dimples of freedom

This is my succulent watermelon of metaphors to the land whose is heart is

Velvet and whose soul is a grain of wheat

Dimples of freedom sing with me, the song of freedom,

Sing Bello, sing azikiwe, sing awolowo, and sing shehu

Song of the people, people and their song.

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