Weak Men

"Touch your feelings. Cry. Show that emotion." 
I remember one who did that as the plot thickened. 
Speaking of truth from his purple toga: 
Purple dripped to the floor because of his fear. 
An emotion. 
It crawled off hanging flesh on a back. 
It trickled off the whip, splattered on stone. 

He feared losing his position in the hierarchy. 
He feared being labelled a tyrant. 
He feared being labelled too clement. 
Truth knocked at his door, offering 
He chose his weakest emotion as guiding star, 
And led Barabbas to lonely babies and future orphans. 

Standing there, drowning in fear, fear, fear, 
Beset by crystal balls drawing his fate 
In paths to future outcomes in purple blood
On the city walls, amidst the clamour, his 
Was vaulting over a bowl of ostrich water, washing 
Off the blood saying, "It wasn't me! Fac sicut vultis"

Where was the Evangelist, to write the guilt, 
Shame and justified tears, as the eclipse shook 
The temple to its foundations, stole the light 
Off the world? To watch him watching Him on His
Shedding the tears of repentant strong men, but 
Only, this time regretting "what if", "what if". 

(c) nyonglema


Face #covid19

Itches are like flies, carrying pestilence
From ranch to branch, restlessly destructive. 
Where do they come from? Nobody nose! 
The ice of their land went dark when sunlight 
Left them nomads on the human body. 
My fingers have a fancy for them, my hands
Dart to dance to their fickle rhythm. 
Van Gogh possesses the evil paint, and my fingers
Like dry brush upon easel, screech out The Scream: 
Nobody ears it, nobody ceases. In that moment 
Death plots with the 19th crown to walk into me. 
My lungs want to heave
But my face takes its leave. 

(c) nyonglema

No End #stopwar #ambazonia

In a conflict, the more sensible person should call for a negotiation, whoever that person is. Guns only call more guns.

Where the sunlight gives a dying kiss to the watery ripples
Of orange despair, my mind wanders like a lost soul. 
Souls get trampled under dusty boots on the drying 
Bahama grass, bent over and trying to recoil when 
The foot leaves it; it has lots to say but its lips are sealed:
Children played here under hopeful stars yesterday, 
While their crease-browed parents argued about the 
Next stop in their journey to nowhere. The neighbours 
Looked at their Cicam cloth on the floor in jealousy; 
Theirs was bare soil, and little food for their brood. 

Children sprayed bullets at soldiers yesterday 
While their wide eyed friends laid in red cells, 
Staring into the distance, avoiding the sight of 
Brother hacking brother. The macabre sacrifice of Cain, 
The macabre machination of Nagato Pain unleashing
Upon the calm Harmattan smoke-laden wind. 

My mind wanders where hope and despair clash with rage. 
Everybody's right in the painting. All that's left,
Are corpses, explosions, revenge, decapitations, and a 
Government that threatens extermination of vermin 
For foiling their plans of total control and greed
Makes you only vermin to be eradicated, cost what may
Come what may! Vermin is vermin even in a cradle. 

(c) nyonglema



The flies hover round, humming a dinner song. 
The smell is marvelous, and taste builds a throng.

Rigor mortis holds their feast in place like pebbles
Laid round hand-decorated ceramic on tables:

Once, he moved around and guided with orders,
To sway his country good and keep its borders.

Then, HE decided. Not anymore, no, no more.
"Fact" is dead and "I heard " took over this shore.

And suddenly judging a presumptuous bribe
Is wiser than doing so for an actual bribe diatribe

(c) nyonglema

If only…

If only I had done more, been more, prayed more! 
The sand and the mud are all mixed up
And the sun fish lie dead on the shore.
I wonder how they gasped for air, while the
Waves beat the sand, sending ripples of
Soothing sound through the air they couldn't breathe.

The plastics of the tourists are crab obstacle courses,
Once filled with juice, once desired
Now cast aside. Filth all around, and death follows.
If only I had done more, been more, prayed more!
The sand once a sheet of beige now is polka-dotted.
The dye finisher botched the mix, and the chaos
Created is just plain filth, and death follows.

I watch the Church tearing itself apart from inside
Like an infiltrated Iron-Man suit; from the inside.

(c) nyonglema

New Classes (by Balla 9yr old)

Whenever I go to a new class, 
At the door I feel a chill on my back
I get so scared
I just stare
But it's okay
to be afraid.
Everyone is nervous sometimes
But they become brave sometimes.

(c) balla

Because colonisation

The wheels on the bus fight round and round
Round the ground, stones around,
The wheels on the bus, have gone aground
In holes in the town.

The driver of the bus says move on back,
Far to the back, far to the back,
The driver of the bus stays in his shack
While sons and moms drown

The baby on the bus goes where'd I go?
Where's that hope? Where's that road?
The baby on the bus thinks Paris stole those
While leaders put on a frown

The mummy on the bus goes France did this
France did this, In the 1960s
The mummy on the bus says France did this,
While leaders steal her gown.

The wheels on the bus have left the ground,
Go round and round, round and round,
The wheels on the bus go off road guards
And starts plunging down.

(c) nyonglema


To the Modern Parent’s kids

Dear all of you living in the 21st debauchery
Of feel good madness, zombies gawking at shiny blocks
Of plastic, which spew tonnes of nothing to capture
Your minds.
I’m sorry that your freedom is freedom to do the same
As everybody else. The advertisement industry
Finally got your flag, and you’re raising your arms
To hail symbols you don’t understand.
You’re Chinese mercenaries in a Trojan war,
African slaves running the slave market.
I’m sorry that your parents gave up.
Literally gave you up to the television, internet
And everything else that added sand to their hour glasses.
There’s hope for you, but till then, I’ll pray for your freedom,
And that parents will actually look after the root of every kingdom



Free thought #politicalcorrect #PC

Politically I correct in white blobs the lines
Of the words I wrote for his eyes;
Well, for their ears in a voice so
Powerful it could start wars or more.
“You can’t say this.” The cat purrs
Nonchalant, rubbing against my foot.
It’s hungry, but I can’t say that.
I must say it needs food as I part
With part of my chicken wings.
“You can’t say that.” It claws away,
The poor creature I saved.
It was a sunny hour on a tired day
With sweat camped on my face,
And work slowly eating up my brain.
I saw it homeless…hmmm, no…street camping
With one eye gouged, scraggly fur
And dark…hmmm…coloured blotches.
Compassion picket it up and cleaned it home.
“This just won’t work!” I asked myself
Who’d want it blind…hmmm…of poor sight?
Tended is caked wounds…hmmm…skin lesions
And brushed dirt off its fur. The speech
Was looking whiter and whiter, though.
But it just chewed away like on the fist day,
When delicious milk in my silver bowl slithered
And constricted grave hunger. And I kept
Blobbing out: “weak”, “pain”, “man”, “black”
“Woman”, “white”, “poor”, “rich”, “tears”, “God”.

(c) nyonglema


History, unloaded

And they gouged its eyes, and ripped out its ears
That no future generations could hear of all the pain
Caused by pseudo-science or thoughts born in fears.

When you think you know what you do not know,
And leap off the ledge into the burning desert snow
You don’t realise how terrible is your crazy show.

But your kids will, and they’ll start screaming
How silly it was not to consider the heat, and that’s
Where we are today, we know more about being

Human. We know that skin colour is just a DNA
Variation, that language varies like wind directions
And that cigarettes will mess up your later days.

But we don’t know if skin colour will stop causing pain
Nor if language modifies the way we live or think
Nor that weed will mess up your later brain.

But I do know that by wiping the mistakes, hiding
Cracks in our foundation, we’re building a shaky future
Where the politically correct act or denying

History was nasty, by renaming, breaking, burning
What once was celebrated for valour, just to fit our mould
Creates ignorant youth who’ll start the same wheels turning.

(c) nyonglema