I'm locked up in my favourite nook -
The room behind my mental hideout...
Writing a poem titled truth
as I pass past my past...
Pen in climax
Poem in climax...
This poem,
it speaks of frozen seas
where ships are trapped like a sheep
in the gallows of hate.
It speaks of barren mothers 
giving birth to still adults 
who are taken by the storm
of hate.

This poem,
it speaks of no new thing
but the ugly sting
of racial discrimination.
It sings like a little kid boy,
the innocent love of lust,
to the little kid girl
whose hair stand erect - tall - 
aroused like the flicker 
of golden butterflies in her baby heart.
But his guitar
as old my grandpa
issues throaty tunes
of ruins, ruins and more ruins.
Yet I wonder
why will one whisper laughter
in such moody mood?
Even the sands
are whiter than baby tooth.

This poem,
it speaks of endless hope
it speaks of hopeless end,
of time,
sluggish time 
Time undefined
neither by seasons swift
nor seasonings sweet.

This poem,
it speaks of heroes gone
whose names are stuck
on in the vagina of time
giving birth to dreams - 
yours and mine.
Giving life to wishes - 
yours and mine.
Firing up our dead deeds
to live again and again.

This poem,
it sings of the fame
of no mean men
with skins as dark as black,
of Madiba,
God bless Mandela.
Of Chukwuemeka Ojukwu,
of Martin Luther and Rosa too.
Of Malcolm and Michael Jackson,
of Kenyatta and Of Selassie.
Of Osadebe and Bob Marley,
of Christie and Maria Makaeba...
Of my Grandfather
of Ghadafi and Okocha and Kenyatta - 
Men and women of note.

This poem,
it is in its spirit vexed.
Vexed about African disunity.
Vexed about African terrorism.
Vexed about xenophobia.
Vexed about the tag
the rest of the crew of spaceship earth
stamp on our sun-burnt faces -
Third world?
Who is the first?
Are we really the third?

This poem,
it speaks for South Sudan.
It speaks for Biafra.
It weeps for Somalia.
It screams for the Gambia.
It speaks for the downtrodden
by once beloved brethren.

This poem,
it is like the one you inked;
the poem they never will read.
The poem that'll never receive
the acclamation of awkward applause
of the rest of the world.
The poem that'll stay stacked
on the dusty racks
of juvenile works
like silly lines of colours
splashed on broken walls.

This poem,
will not be spoken nor sung.
Will not be strapped to religion
Will not be stolen because of its value
but for mockery, mockery and mockery.
- black Monkey.

This poem,
this poem of mine
shall run even like odd numbers
and stay buoyant 
on the sea of time
until bombs and guns 
and fire and blood
replace the sweet lyrics of dear mama's songs.

This poem
will speak in tongues
like the Yoruba talking drums
of how Sango the warrior
stumbled over the mallet of Thur.
It shall hoot
like Odenigbo's flute
of how Amadioha traded oil palms
for minted paper-greased palms.

This poem,
long like the river Nile,
boring like the Kenyan rhymes
It might not change a thing.
But its meaning shall be changed.
I shall by this poem of mine
become the reincarnate of us.
Our pride
Our stand
Our time.
For I choose to speak the unspoken
For I choose to write the unwritten
For I choose to let it linger longer than eternity
until time shall time out
and your weak minds shall remember
now and forever
that this poem never was written
nor shall ever be written.
That this poet never was born
nor ever in hell burn
for telling a lie that is more truer
than the birth of the Messiah.
That this is a secret.
That this is no secret.
That I am as confused
as the stuffy air in this room.
That I shall take the blame
for wasting your time reading the insane
lines of my muse's inking.

This poem,
it is the fragment of your thoughts
the ingredients of your thoughts
the very hinges on which the door
that opens up...
I do not even know...
I cannot even recall...
What is it I want to write.
But this poem, 
it shall speak silently still
in your mind
until black is rated mankind.

This poem...
This poem...
I wrote it with closed eyes
and bleeding fingers...
locked up in my favourite nook -
The room behind my mental hideout...
Writing a poem titled truth
as I pass past my past...
Pen in climax
Poem in climax...

This poem...