Chris Abani

Chris Abani Poems

Chris Abani Biography

Christopher "Chris" Abani (born 27 December 1966) is a Nigerian author. He is part of a new generation of Nigerian writers working to convey to an English-speaking audience the experience of those born and raised in "that troubled African nation". Abani was born in Afikpo, Nigeria. His father was Igbo, while his mother was English-born. He published his first novel, Masters of the Board, in 1985 at the age of 16. It was a political thriller, the plot of which was an allegory based on a coup that was carried out in Nigeria just before it was written. He was imprisoned for six months on suspicion of an attempt to overthrow the government. He continued to write after his release from jail, but was imprisoned for one year after the publication of his 1987 novel Sirocco. After he was released from jail this time, he composed several anti-government plays that were performed on the street near government offices for two years. He was imprisoned a third time and was placed on death row. Luckily, his friends had bribed government officials for his release in 1991, and immediately Abani moved to the United Kingdom, living there until 1999. He then moved to the United States, where he now lives.)

The Best Poem Of Chris Abani

Unholy Women

But of course these poems are

about men,

which we become by defining how
we are not women

and

so becoming

a shadow devouring the light to find the limits

which is what Richard Pryor would have told Joan of Arc
in a joke funnier for being sexist

"It's a man thang."

And of course there is God

and its problematic relationship to light

not to mention the question

of permission

Who builds the box, the shape?

It makes sense that Jesus, the new man 2,000 years ago

was a carpenter.

You need that craft, the precision of measurement

angles of angels

who incidentally are never women.

Just ask the Romans, who called them Angelo, Angelus

never Angela—

that lie was coined by a dissident nun hiding
her feminism under the cover of rapture

but

is it enough to announce yourself?
To beat your chest in contrition calling

Mea culpa! Mea culpa?

Guilt can never be enough
Mere intent—where is its purpose?

Yet there are no answers

there are only lines that disappear

into horizons that girder us with safety

just as there is no way to end this poem.

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