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Tosin Otitoju

Tosin Otitoju

Poems in the last two issues.  Boniface in e.issue 10 and Godly People in e.issue 9.  Hope you don't tire of my poems :) as I definitely feel fortunate to 1. write and 2. share them.

Monday, 15 October 2012 20:42

Only Voluntary

I like
the moon
and
I like
you,
my sweet
and smiley
friend.
I do not
need
you
as
I
need
the sun.
Don't get it twisted.
Let's have fun.
Monday, 15 October 2012 20:37

Jade Ring

Does a fish
need a bicycle,
ever?

I don’t need a
prenup, postnup,
smelly divorce,
teensy diamond
set in platinum,
a wedding-full
of people,
a towering cake;
I can barely
stand
Vera Wang.

I don’t need
to change my name.
 
I don’t need
permission to
cohabitate or
conceive;
I love
who I want.

I don’t need
a marriage
license.

 


Monday, 30 April 2012 02:00

Boniface

He's a funny guy.
He wears a round hat.
It's black - a bowler,
bit like Jonathan's.
That means he's Ijaw,
maybe Ogoni -
he's no Saro-Wiwa, though,
more like a phoney.
Cries 'Wolf, Wolf!'
then buys a Hummer.
Cries "oppression!"
then buys another.

Watch hair dye create
a youth leader;
the people's voice
up in Abuja.
He figures he's a young Obama...
somebody tell him the difference:
'yes, I can' ain't 'yes we can.'
It's poverty we hate, not quite the white man.
Why dress like him?
It seems colonial -
what's traditional about Portuguese
shirts with gold chains on 'em?

Small Boniface,
grown so fast.
He's now a big man.
A quick-talking,
aggressive king-pin.
Has no respect for
us, point taken.
For a better creek,
we need to lose him.
Saturday, 03 September 2011 02:00

Godly People

Ten thousand years and
we have not changed.
Our idioms -
Climbing a mountain,
Reaching for the sky,
Family in the firmaments, ...
Recycled matter, we
kneel, we bow, we quake.

Ten thousand years and
we still yearn for a splash
of warm blood against our face;
we want to be told
who is chosen for slaughter;
we yearn for pain laughter event;
we to whom nothing ever happens
want something to happen as

we have not changed
in our lust for excitement.
Festivals get boring without
drunken excess.
We prefer our parties brimming
with gossip and fashion.
We yearn for convulsion,
and uncommon theater.
Man dies without passion.
Rules bind the pash...
rules free the pash too,
at the appointed times.

Our idioms
have not changed:
A priest fertilizes a virgin...
the land is dark, humus-rich...
pregnant with tubers,
and aglow with fruits.
A question:
if one priest bows, and another
embraces him,
what fertility is there?

Climbing a mountain
to ponder the impending suffering
when a hired priest
wastes the seeds,
leaving the waiting female earth
scorned and certainly furious...
The word from above,
at the mountaintop,
is this:
Give the people what they want.

Reaching for the sky
on a ladder of vocation:
we have bellies to feed,
and priests to direct the directors above.
The priest must put his seed
in a fertile hole,
to teach the animators
to stave off famine.

Family in the firmaments,
where bellies are ever full,
understands our prayer
for daily bread.
The word to us is politically strategic:
Spill the blood of the lazy priests;
give the people a party.

Recycled matter, we
make excellent humus soil,
bringing forth fruit,
fragrant when the sun smiles,
numerous when the rain showers fall
flirtatiously and tease
out food for citizen
families. Numerous, we

kneel, we bow, we quake.
When they above frown,
we sacrifice.
Sometimes even before they frown,
we present a small kola.
Two corpses lay on the lakeshore
in view of hooting accusers.
The party was one-in-town,
yet the famine was severe.