Victoria Falls Again

I came I saw and was stoutly conquered                               

By a wounded river in its middle                                          

That brutally awoke from the dead                                       

Hearts beaten into rock and tough riddle                              

I came there when the rain killed cameras

And sentenced cheap mobile phones to silence

With human voices harassed and embarrassed

By the vexed spirit of Victoria Falls

Even the rainbow was cowered and bent

In apologies to Ma Zambezi

Who fumed dews of blessings on its bent back

In downloads and uploads without a fee

I was puzzled by sudden presences

Of nations jumping out of anxious beds

To watch the rainbow drink water like fish

From a larva-spitting middle river

Such that early that morning I joined them

As candidate and witness to miracles

Where the river shouted in agreement

To heaven and earth breaking sheer shackles

Oh Zambezi your own action secrets                                     

Remain unknown even to cast kola nuts

Sharing this drama with nations watching

Rainbows fall on living stone like bread

Moulds Jesus wouldn’t touch to shake late converts

into cowards like Livingstone hiding in the bushes                           

behind the vexed Victoria spitting up larva rain

from the wounded belly of a river not far 

From furtive Livingstone who’d tripped

On a rainbow under his feet

To open warm embraces for new pals

That come but hardly ever stay to hide

Holy Saturday

Cryptically labyrinthine:

A much needed haven from the hell of the world,

For the trio at this point in time.

Their march was unto sanity as if from insanity.

This special group for the Lord’s workshop,

Needed a retreat to retreat from fishing,

To a more profitable fishing vocation.

For a quieter Saturday city than ours.

Than ours!

So, where is Peter

And where is James,

And where is John?

I can understand a bout of smallpox or chickenpox or cowpox

That can take one to a hide-out hospital

Beyond the knowledge of friends

Beyond the knowledge of the king

Beyond the knowledge even of one’s spouse

Where is Peter?

Peter went on sabbatical

To attend a short course on fishing:

Soon enough he should be able to use fishing boats,

Or become a fishing professor in a fishing college.

I don’t mean for fishing mobile phones

At PZ[1], no.

He will not take a PhD in fishing, no.

He is aware that the fishing business is into billions per year,

And he is going for that…

But will he last there?

Where is James?

He went to plan a coup.

No longer keen on sitting beside God

It is okay if he already has power here:

Power to command as Grand Commander of the Armed Forces;

Power to shout like thunder, the voice of God;

Power to kick people around like football;

And power to sleep through international conferences.

Jesus left a wrong notion of power:

Look at him parading in hell displaying power,

And yet his men are looking for power

That is neither in heaven nor in hell.

Rather than feed the hungry,

He is talking to demons.

Rather than heal the sick,

He is taking a lost and found key from the underworld.

But why should James not go for elections?

At least he died for his faith.

Oh Mother of God,

Pray for us sinners that we may honour our democracy,

And stand in elections when the people want us,

And resign from our posts when we become redundant,

Pray for us sinners, now and the hour of our demise.

            now and the hour of our downfall

            now and the hour of our termination

            now and the hour of our recreation

But we died before now a long time ago:

Remember the loss of the railway track;

Remember the Green Revolution that took place in hotels;

Remember the many coups d’état;

Remember the farce of the ABC[2] on our character;

Remember, remember, and remember!

Oh Mother of God,

Pray for us sinners,

Now and the hour of our new death.

Where is John?

He went in to master writing:

He wrote about everything

Including love,

Including warnings about hell,

And real kingdom matters.

He became a real journalist,

Preaching louder than John the Baptist his former master.

He so mastered the call of journalism

That Journalists after him, instead of Pastors,

Have their heads displayed on some platter

On King Herod’s birthday.

Including love—

            Love that a Pastor got wrong when he eloped with his catechist’s wife

            Love that a sportsman got wrong when he took performance enhancing drugs

And warnings about hell—

Hell that is misunderstood in daily conversations

Hell that is not known at the fireside

And real Kingdom matters—

            Not the kingdoms created by Bishops

            Not the Kingdom of empire builders

We should join the fasting squad,

On today

Today being Holy Saturday,

A day unto the Lord!

---

[1] PZ: Paterson Zochonis

[2] ABC:  ‘Attitudinal and Behavioral Change,’ name of the office set up by President Ernest Bai Koroma after Sierra Leone’s  celebration of her Jubilee

Phone-Robber

Phone-robber is time robber:

My energy

Not traded by slave traders,

Not sucked by sugar planters,

Not trapped b’inhuman humans;

But sold to Motorola, and Nokia, and Samsung, and I-phones,

And I am in them:

In them all,

This is not funny

But phony!

The phone has taken my ears

And made me deaf:

High noise in General,

Low noise in Silence,

Medium noise at meetings,

Soul noise in Standard;

And I am toed by the ears,

Thunder noise! Rain noise! Battle noise! Love noise! Radio noise!

The phone has taken my eyes

And made me blind:

I must see America in my phone.

I must see my best friend in my phone.

I must read my school notes on my phone.

I must video someone,

Or something,

Just to show I can;

And take your photo,

Whether you buy it or not,

Just to show I can;

And take my own photo,

Just to show I can!

Yes I can!

The phone has taken my hands

I can no longer work:

Fingertip touch on palm top—

Read mails, or serve them as meals,

Bank special notes,

Bank names and numbers,

With a wow—wow wow!

Just to show I can,

Yes I can!

The phone is my shovel, my pickaxe, my pencil, my eraser.

So I can—yes I can!

The phone has taken my feet

I can no longer walk:

Except to fly for phone,

Or flow for phone.

I care not cancelling all trips just to trip for phone,

Forgetting is not permitted!

Go get the phone,

The magic wand that transports dreams

The phone has taken my head,

I can no longer think:

Most faithful phone in town,

Delivers my appointments,

Aborts my appointments;

She delivers my make-believes,

And aborts my make-believes,

With a wow—wow wow!

The phone has taken my days,

And weeks:

Day and night—

Twenty four eight;

And months,

And I lost the count of time.

Indeed I’m busy,

So busy with sense,

And nonsense;

I bet fifty-one percent nonsense,

Is nonsense!

So I flash you

With this phone,

Because my phone is empty;

And I flash you with that phone,

Because you are more empty.

Indeed it is not funny,

But phony.

Send me your money,

That I may phone another;

Send me your money,

That I may buy some tunes;

Send me your money,

That I may start a chat.

Phone breakfast, phone lunch, phone tea, phone play.

I will starve to death

If I don’t labour here—

I mean if I sniff or snuff less

The cellulaaaaar!

The New Salone Leone

They say as they always do
That the Salone Leone
Of the Seventies
Died with the Seventies

But you know as well as I do
That the Salone Leone
Of the Seventies
Never laid claim to immortality
In the face of fatalities
As dark as the Seventies
Yes as stark as the Seventies

But that was in the rains
When the ground was wet for growing notes
As one might grow Rice or Coconut
From the wet soil
Or Rutile or Gold or Diamond
From the dry soil

Yet we still have the rains
As we do the dries
As we do the dries

Sure enough
The Salone Leone will grow taller
Than the tallest coconut tree
On your heart
If your heart is wet soil
In the rains
Or
If your heart is dry soil
In the dries
Yes when it pours
As it is about to pour
From the new new sky
The Sierra Leone song on development and transformation
A rainbow from your heart

Indeed
In the new jazz of wet and dry
You are the Salone Leone
Shooting above the sky