Ejiofor Alisigwe

A Man Of The People - Poem by Ejiofor Alisigwe

Our Oga's smoking pipe is rigged to guzzle mmanu nkwu
A ripe nut for a squirrel emitting nkakwu
Oga is a fat cat claw on our sozzled land of pie
Oga also gutted the land Papa left us, clotted to die

Spouts of septicaemia blotted the doped riverines
And strangled the last breath of convulsive airings
From the indigenous fishes with emphysema to boot
While Oga stoke and belch with unquenchable enormity to hoot
The flaring of avoidable discontent

There are no more fishes for the Ijaws
The fishes are poisoned and dead
Ndi Urhobo do not see to eat nor to bury their dead
Truth is hand to mouth for the Itsekiri slip jaws
And as ever the open sores oozes stringent opulent cowries
Which lead flirtatiously prone to the rapacious seas

And after, do not dust your leprous feet with a complex loud tap
To cloud my weariest eyes too soon to your trap
I was blind not long after the experience
To want to read your sprinkled ash for clues
To see whether it was cast awide with golden cowries
And if need be for my tawdry emolument toot toot

Swiss Bank is a howling banshee of lore
Wishes to a Leprechaun's pot of gold to bore
Very neutral and friendly to a faceless vault

The sun is out on your snowy mansions to bare
Secrets feted by your ingenious able host
And for the seal, Nobel gave you a knowing wink and a pat
And the right price for my share misappropriate by it

Will my value be a labeled percentage of the Pie Chart?

Since you have gone and left me without land
There are rigorous piggybacks through the desert
Then like Jonah, I walk the belly of the sea, I repeat
But, Nwanna, I believe I can fly the kite

You are my father, my uncle, my kinsman
If you should see me now Nna-anyi

I am in your Switzerland!
There is something here for everybody alright
The weather is very cold as if my heart is dead

Hey! but here is to you my Ruler
I am now a toilet cleaner
Exorcitio te! Ex crucien Domini!

Oh, your friend kept his word my friend
He's had your story cast with plated cowries
Then they all picked with light-fingers of gold
One finger soiling five of old

And the wreath of spikes held gingerly close
Ready to impale the honourable Head stone

Please do mind how apt you must leave
They are not blowing any hailing trumpet
They are not laying any red carpet
All your friends are locked in your room
Sweeping the spoils of your rites with sieveless broom
All done in muted chant with sleight of hand

I am standing outside your door Lost of Wand

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Poem Submitted: Friday, October 10, 2008

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