Grandma’s Nuptials

Gracefully, Step by step,

At the Marina Anglican Church

With maids, like eggs in a clutch,

The newly-weds

Hand in hand

Away walked from the altar;

Not before Parson James

Their nuptials with “Amen” sealed.

Pa Amos and bride,

Ma Priscilla, then, slowly

Each other kissed tenderly

Following which orders aplenty

From cameramen heeded.

One photo after another

From one group to another

Here and there

Grandma, aka Nne Ije-Ukwu,

Slim and pretty

Never looked sweeter

Presently at a cock-tail party

Where guests generously

Aired adulation

On a doting husband’s gallantry,

His elegant bride

Not complimented any less,

Lovingly, in deep appreciation

Without reservation or hesitation

One and all gave a hug

Not caring if any had a bug,

She, whose conversion

To Christianity

Took almost an eternity

Lagos, June 2, 2013

European Scouts

In the nick of time, crystal clear

It all became

When the final whistle went

And cool waters of relief

From on high, God

On a nation’s

Ninety-four-minute

Anxiety splashed.

Nigerians, at last, overjoyed,

To The Almighty

Throaty encomiums

Trumpeted forth,

Beer drinking and

Dancing all night long

Whilst fire-works

The dark sky lighted.

In a blaze of glory,

The twentieth edition

Of Africa’s football tournament

At an end,

Its coveted trophy

To Nigeria twice already

Destined, again,

This time around, went.

An experienced national coach,

Against the run of play,

Thanks to his belief

In local lads,

Who, hungry for victory,

Their country made proud,

European scouts,

In droves, these

Talented African players

In numbers, now

With confidence

Snap up.

Lagos, June 14, 2013

A Village Morning

             

Early risers, who a foot-path thronged,

While the stars up above still twinkled,

Jungle creatures yet asleep roused.

Armed with varying sizes of calabash,

Villagers to a distant water-hole rushed.

Oh, how sweet it was, life in the village

Back in the day, when male and female,

Young and old, along the way defecated;

Their behinds with corn-cobs tidied up,

In gender-segmented pools took a bath!

Females chattering, or love songs singing,

Their ebony-black bodies scrubbed clean.

Men, out Tilapia fish, one or two, to catch,

Their level best with a cast net did, in silence.

After lovers sweet nothings had said and done,

To potable water’s segment headed one and all.

With wet, laundered clothes held in one arm-pit,

In tandem on every head sat a water-calabash.

Lagos, 2014-02-23  

An Ending

                           

Shrill refrain of high expectations at Independence chanting

Expectant citizens up from colonization success anticipating

Their luck couldn’t believe a natural, super -resource finding

Oil-rich country with century-old hopes ever flip-flopping

Its ups and downs places without equity interchanging

Brilliant budgetary plans not implemented recollecting

Much-awaited changes for the better never materializing

A people oppressed by corrupt acts its fate bemoaning

A few, power-drunk, with filthy lucre loaded, globe-trotting

Their offspring, spoilt silly, drug snorting, wine popping

To a nation of beggars unwary compatriots transforming              

Many, sitting on black gold leaks in poverty wallowing

None sleeps, no thanks to roiling flames from gas flaring

Sneaky mayhem, crawling in places, one and all terrorizing

Gate-keepers do no harm to brutes innocent girls abducting

Not a soul to fibs from VIPs listens about El Dorado coming

Of untold suffering rising, there’s anger demanding an ending

Lagos, March 8, 2014

LIFE

Life can be good anywhere, so says a gist;
How it goes, is what you make of it.

To be born with a silver spoon;
That’s a good start, though thinks not a goon.

Learning can be an advantage, not to a fool;
Only if applied, would there be gain in full.

Failing to plan is like planning to fail;
Unlikely, would anybody a fool’s failure hail.

When opportunity at your door-mouth lands;
Foolish it is be not to hold it with both hands

Hard work hasn’t been known to kill any;
But avoiding it has led to the death of many.

There’s no such thing like marrying a bad wife;
But if often, hits you then, you’re on to a bad life.

If you grow old, it’s good any day for you to die;
But otherwise, what your wife has to say is a lie,

If you died, with cash and property loaded;
On a farewell party, nobody needs to be goaded.

If you leave a will, thinking that that’ll do it;
You’ve got to think again, mistresses don’t go for it.

 

 

 

GEORGE AMADI

Ritual Executioner

Oracle, an eclipsed, reddened sun
His superstitious mind freaked out.
Unrepentant pagans, like him, by an
Unquestioned age-long belief, swear;
But although, an unequivocal proof
Such an awe-inspiring myth lacks.

Thrice, in vain, growled in hysteria
A thief that stole a sacrificial goat;
To the gods, his blood on iroko tree,
Spilled like chicken-pox, destined was.

Mass-Server Chibuzo, in solemnity,
Thrice, on his knees, the altar bell rang
And Holy Communion approaching, Adia,
A lone voice, hymns her best shot gave.

A former ritual executioner, Obi, now a
Convert, “Mea Culpa” mouthed.
His very first words, as Christian,
Out went In search of a new start;
No veil can sins from him now hide,
What’s left is for “Alleluia” to ring loud.



Lagos, May 18,2013

GEORGE AMADI

Time It Was

Tufts, which from my unshaven face grew,
Mocked by a mirror worn over time,
Yet, in the morning sunshine
Basked in the rays of light,
An itchy chin set on fire.

Time it was
In the prime of my youth
When growing a beard,
Which the lips barely left visible,
A sense of adolescent rebellion
Rewarded, more so, at a time
My Fatherland with a civil war contended.

Time it was
In the prime of my youth
When looking good was everything;
When dabbing a cut chin with Old Spice,
Trying hard a smooth face to give your baby
Who had guys lined up, if you didn’t play ball.

But there comes a time of mourning in your life,
When having a smooth face for the girls
Must take a back-seat; when
Feeling good, looking good
Into the dust-bin of vanity
Discarded should be.

For twenty-one days and as many nights,
What a sad time it was,
Did I, unshaved, in utter surrender
To itches, unfriendly remarks
Remained, my focus,
On heavenly delights,
For the soul
Of a beloved sister riveted.

 

 

 

GEORGE AMADI

 

 

KC Cadet Unit

'Left, right, left, right...',
that, I liked,
My self-esteem at King's
it surely hiked.
The Mark-IV rifle, though,
long and heavy,
Didn't scare me one bit,
such costly levy.

I, my haversack loaded
to the brim,
Went nowhere near the
Pacific Rim;
A first-class shot, not once
war saw,
But yearly did brawl in a
mock war.

Aright, still, King's Cadet
Unit plies,
Oh, how quickly, indeed,
time flies.
If given a chance again
to present arms,
proudly, that, I'd seize
with open arms.

Inflation's Not A Notion

No time by a neck's scruff to be held,
neither a word said nor any heard;
yet looks piercing accusations spat,
no parting embrace or a gentle pat.

As went man penniless, so flew piss,
to Africa a thought on whys evokes,
for another day a subject to broach,
on the hows, I'd let go, no reproach.

Grumblings, fratricidal war preceded
sychophants over plunder presided.
Rulers unelected autocracy craved,
their captives armed faces braved.

Tyrant, ever hoisting a fist clenched,
like an emperor, his will entrenched.
Lots stole, fittingly, by a kid got shot;
until slain, poor folks no respite got.

As words from a PC keyboard spring,
so will tyrants patriots kill in Spring.
Unto citizens alert belongs a nation,
to them inflation's not just a notion.