How I Got Over Poem by Victor Okey Nwatu

No idea is original;
but let the copying be minimal.
It’s better if the copying is marginal.
‘Cos complete dubbing is criminal.
Even Achebe borrowed from Yeats, his title.
So what’s wrong in using a Roots album title?

I’ve been through places, seen many faces.
Many things’ve passed through me, faces seen me.
I’ve been places in countless paces,
and etched in my heart, they’ll forever be.
I have it all in Nineteen-Eighty-Four,
but I’ll talk about just one part more.

I wasn’t addicted to my bank job,
so it wasn’t too hard to quit.
But, I did quit gently like a ball lob,
I did it that way; didn’t have to fling it.
Why did I do that? To go back to school.
To me it’s cool. To them, I’m a fool.

So, I bid my dependants a farewell;
took my place once more in the ivory tower.
I prayed it all turn out well;
that I still had high pressure brain power.
‘Cos the course in which I sought an MSc
was, more or less, like Pitman’s job to me.

It was fifty two weeks; fifty graded courses.
It was countless sleep-deprived nights;
countless terrains with numerous courses,
marked with numerous fights and flights.
All resulted in 45 As, and 5 Bs;
and a place at the 3rd branch of the honour tree.

Yes, I earned my second degree with distinction;
the very first in my ancient lineage.
But, what drew my rapt attention
was their seemingly unfounded outrage
at my not having an offer of employment,
but rather a promise of an employment.

To them, fool was my first name;
and the last, highly unprintable.
They couldn’t understand my impish game –
leaving being employed for being employable.
That set the stage for what I felt.
How my calm composure was, a big blow, dealt.

Five months of motion with no movement,
Except for clicking send buttons of applications;
and being subject of a tyrannical government;
as well as topic of various conversations;
took its toll on my body system dynamics,
nearly obliterated my French syntax and semantics.

But, it did poke me like in Facebook;
and affected m walk and talk pattern;
bestowed on me a perpetually morose look;
made a weakling out of a spear-wielding Spartan.
That’s when I looked at the ring, threw my towel in it.
And left Enugu for PH; I’ve reached my limit.

Habitation, Malik did oblige me
in his cosy Elelenwo villa.
But, there were seven other guys besides me,
which removed the cosy in the cosy villa.
But Bukky was on hand, quite benevolent
Though there were other things, malevolent.

There were the nights of heat and sweat;
Exacerbated by barrister’s noisy and fuming generator.
And the days of anxiety caused by an empty pocket,
worsened by being a houseboy and food facilitator.
Some hands also mad my homemaking no easier;
made sure I was by the day, getting busier.

I did all that was within my power;
when it came to home-making, and all.
Did it to reciprocate the good old Ma.
Didn’t want his home’s sanitary level to fall.
But I was always hopeless when it came to cash
‘cos I didn’t have it in any hidden stash.

Good old Ma did foot my share of bills
when it was really rough on me –
when my pocket had lack of money chills.
And the other seven were also kind to me,
and since I can’t name each, and every name,
I’ll let Umeoka and Ud take the positive blame.

Ndeze saw me twice, and was nice that twice –
as he left some notes in my private chest.
Puppie, to my life, added the money spice;
and Capo was at his benevolent best.
My hearth got firewood from Kevin the dude;
And so did the damsel with name for sacrifice so good.

My cry for help has Benjamin Franklin to thank.
As it was heard in L.A., across the Atlantic.
And my godmother sent me to the bank;
and I came out feeling high, fantastic.
Also, my colleague, Ishan’s own finest.
bailed out one of his kind, Coal City’s Finest.

It would be an unpardonable abomination
to forget the one that’s normal.
‘cos he saved me from financial capitulation;
with charity so inexplicably positively abnormal.
And Taliban treatment would be good for me
if I don’t remember the good old B.

Mum was there with her tears and love;
and her resources sunk in making many calls.
Nnamdi’s love added to the one above –
he did my dirty jobs with no coveralls.
Dad and Chinenye helped in their own ways.
In fact, having a family around one pays.

This piece on How I got Over,
would be an exercise in futility
if I forget the One who pulled me over,
when I was racing towards fatality.
He gave me an answer; pulled me out.
When I was lonely, dry, down and out.


(Oct 2010)