Confessions Poem by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

It was around midnight when the
Sun set in to remind me of the
Dangers of running away with the
Murder of innocent horses, which
My village hunters have failed to
Admit to.
The sun had dimples on its frail
Face and the breath of its fire
Was rancid...

It was naked, save for the loose,
Blood-stained loin cloth it borrowed
From a heart-wrecked Moon last July.
It came at an ungodly time, a time
When prostitutes massage their ego,
A time when hunters sleep by the lions’ den –
And that’s when lions themselves puke
Their victims by tired and wayward brooks...
Midnight stood between waking and slumbering.
I chose waking, knowing the anger of the sun
Especially when the clouds clench their teeth
In lugubrious festivals, especially with the murder
Of crimson horses dedicated to our village.
I rued the event of this murder. I rued witnessing the
Crowning of the sun behind the frontage of murderers.
I rued living among proud harlots who confuse grace with
Kindness, and choose dirges in lieu of canticles...

And the spirit of the murdered horses haunted me.
They came, mean-spirited, behind the mourning sun.
They whined spells and pronounced whimsical curses.
Their looks, basilisk, made me cringe by the door of
Courage. Their hoofs cantered to the deafness of strength
I should have mumbled prayers in-between rage and weakness.
Rage, for the sin I didn’t commit alone – a communal sin;
Weakness, for the confessions I puked earlier in the day.
I know nothing of the murder of the horses. Even if I know,
I never knew. And the horses were handsome in spirits.
But before their murder they were spavined and smelled
Like hell...

The sun roused me, demanding confessions from me,
Reminding me of its sleeplessness.
Its rays prickled with fanned-out neck-hairs of the horses.
The heat was mild, due to the calmness of midnight.
And it reeked of baked, sun-clothed blood.
Thunder soothed its voice and its round rims were balmed,
Or embalmed. I don’t quite remember now, for it was
Midnight. A callous midnight with gaunt shadows of
Or our village’s heinous past. A callow midnight
That fails to be on surveillance and note the sun’s intrusion
Into the night’s threshold.

I battled between being me and being the hunters, the murderers.
I faced not the sun in that gloom, in that room of abraded sleep.
I hankered after poetry of salvation, of escape from mad waters,
Such that riddled my stiff neck with beads of collective sweat –
Collective, yes, for the hunters deny themselves of justice.
Justice from the sun and the spirits of the once spavined horses,
Now wearing new, white raiment of heaven, where they’ve been
First judged and proven innocent. Innocent of being spavined in
The first instance.
Being in the presence of the translucent sun was my first hell.
And when I sang for redemption, that was my first hymn.