Reminiscences Poem by Nkwachukwu Ogbuagu

(A poem in honour of Shell Camp. Dedicated to all teachers and pupils, past and present, dead and alive) .


So, what says the Morning Information?
Have Anthony and Patrick been traced?
Mrs. Elele, I heard, now resides in softer climes.
But that's another thing, by the way.
Did you watch LOVE BOAT last night on TV?
Channel 6, Aba showed it.

These soldiers here make me blench from the truth -
The truth that our uniforms must blend. White-on-crimson.
Yes. With their forest-green khaki.
And our brown sandals must welcome their jet-black
Wellingtons. That's right. Oh, my God!
Together, we all must pay the rent of a compound
Whose fiduciary we do not know.
There are other tenants as well.
I speak of the somnolent staff of IDC. They hardly
Guess when sidereal restlessness commences.
Do they have an unending crapulence?

College of Education Demonstration School (CEDS) .
So, what are we demonstrating?
We've not asked, except that we march well enough on
Children's Day with Anthony...
Ehe- n, that reminds me, have you posted on Anthony's wall?
Or do you recline on the sleazy, tardy, wistfulness of
Recuperating science?

Rains shed tears of heaven and make mockery of our
Military might. We cringe before all things heavenly,
Procrastinating like we do when it's time to leave for the
Craft Centre - the place we marched to, under sultry spell,
Unguided like umu aturu n'enweghi onye nche.
But the Lord was our Shepherd.
Who says the Psalm 23 we recited every morning did not pay off?
And the hostile sun did not smite us by day.

You've not said a word about the Alvan students.
Such an encroachment! They come and go, repeating
Cycles like the teething seasons, when incisors in mushroom-sprouts,
Decorate the cowrie arrangement of propitiation.
Quite orgulous, they take us for granted like
We've schemed a morganatic marriage with them.

What do we write on Anthony's wall?
Simple. Seven Rolls Begin.
Kate Njoku made it on my friends' list. She didn't shoo me
Off this time. My malfeasance, venial, hung on the crests of the
Sempervirence of tropical September.
Would you want to add her as a friend?

The olfactory direction comes with the frying whiff of Odobiri,
Which wafts through the air for the tang savoured through Ofuchie.
They've merged into one company, just to make healthier repasts.
Your guess is as good as mine.
Which specie of almond fruits goes well with your palate?
Oh, almond, where's thy crimson mesocarp which shields
The endocarp of fruity blessings?
And the treacly juice of mango.
A dropp of your Treetop flavour will do.
Just that. How long do we have for such traipse, when
The bell will soon peal for the end of break period?
And for God's sake, where's your lunchbox?

How often does Mrs. Nsofor summon protocols of those
Christmas canticles for carols?
Such staccato composition from us boys and girls was a
Trumpery for harmattan spells that dare not grouch.
As you search for Anthony and Patrick, extend your search
For Abraham. We must rock our souls on his bosom.
We're planting an arbour for the agglutination of Kookabura's
Buttocks. Old gum trees have now been felled by Katrina
Or Irene, one of those harridans.

God be in my head, and in my understanding
God be in my eyes, and in my looking...

Ochomma di ka flower ututu (ututu) ...

H.I.P. for the hip, for the hippopo...

The day is bright; it's bright and fair. Oh, happy day...

Laugh, Kookaburra, laugh ha ha ha
Kookaburra, gay your life must be...

These lines have nothing in common with
Ogbalu's puerile Aka Bekee Gbuo. Dinta Egbe Fee.
Refrains do not yield to the expostulations of stanzas.
J.C. Gagg never wrote in stanzas.
He neither wrote with the breath of an ailing prose.
He built lessons only in lexis and structure, with bits of
Verbal aptitude, building promontories across the siege of
Wayward, feculent waters.
Lowest and highest common factors dwelt in the green pages of
Lacombe's text. But that's for another day.

What says the updated Morning Information?
Has Agom Eze, the General of the Pupils' Army, spelled and
Pronounced the word, PROMOTION?

So, how long does this poem intend to be?
It's nearing 1: 30 p.m.
Dismissal hour.

Now the day is over.
Night is drawing near...

And at night, which sheds every weight of
Diurnal principles, this verse shall be read
Under the fickle flame of a promiscuous lamp.

So, what do we do?

Do we call it a day?

Your guess is as ageless as mine.

OK, then.

School dismiss.
Awaaaaaaaaayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !