Categories
anger

Here Lie Lies

Here lies Lie, who killed no woman nor baby:
No fire was started, no life was lost lately
The char was made up 
Not even one stray cop
Was near Ngarbuh on Valentine's day 2020. 

(c) nyonglema 

Categories
fear

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


Categories
anger

Can’t stop, won’t stop #ngarbuh #fongum #more

Who cares? The tears dry up into bitter red salt crystals
On the petals fallen to this ball of water and rocks, muddied
In lush vegetation trampled by boots, slippers, silent cymbals. 

They clang, but the ears float far away, like the soul halo
In the backlit fumes of fresh foray against foe and friend,
For revenge is mellow so that metal and more can billow. 

But who hears? The blue bird chirps its pain in arrows
And hearts, and graphic designers design gore for that
Yet the glass stays cold despite blood, char, and ash it shows. 

It stank to them who stole the pictures to horrid memory, 
But not to me. No phone can relay those chemicals to me
Or the emotions that come with walking on war territory

So I smile, and swipe left. Denial is the media's vial, 
Filled with self-loathing poison, the ministers love it too. 
More bullets, more fire, and less genocidal survival. 

(c) nyonglema


Categories
anger

Butterfly effect #ambazonia

Spare the son. 
But kill the father, kill the mother, kill the brother,
Kill the sister, kill the baby, and let the son get vengeful, and
Spare the son.

But kill the father, kill the mother, kill the brother,
Kill the brother, kill the dog, kill the baby and let that son get vengeful, and
Spare the hospital,

But burn the houses, burn the father, burn the mother,
Burn the cousin, burn the uncle, and let the healed get vengeful, and
Spare their buddy,

And let hell drop red upon the fuming ashes of fresh baked
Black human flesh in their wake, and let their buddy get vengeful and
Spare a cousin,

And....

(c) nyonglema
Categories
sadness

Where is Ambazonia?

Where the grass grows in zig-zags, and the trees
Planted in rows, lift their weight to offer to God.

Where the pavements long for walking, and the
Buildings ache to breathe, choked in silence.

Where the hearts beat to the rhythm of barrel drums,
And the ears listen for smoke, blood, and laughter

Where the buildings pick up circular pieces to hide
Their Dalmatian-themed painting of despair and calibres

Where brother kills brother for dialog to be stifled;
Where words are stabbed with the bayonet and hope gets rifled.

Where once great minds spoke English, planned futures,
And debated all the various features of said futures.

Where once you lived, and smiled, and laughed to care,
But now duck and shiver, bleeding and gasping for air.

(c) nyonglema


		
Categories
sadness

My country

Is made of strangers, living next to strangers. 
Not with them.
Indifference is king, and the king is indifferent.
Tears have taken Oxygen's place in our atmosphere,
And we breathe them in, and exhale stale
Bravura to match King Arthur.
Only, in my country, hearing aids are radios,
And the television is Braille.
The tales fail miserably to push us to excel
As we look round, and our senses are tricked that
That tears are oxygen, and pain is a toy,
Blood is water, and water is abundant.
So our indifference remains king,
And the king isn't different.

(c) nyonglema
Categories
sadness

The dog ate the baby #Cameroon

Daddy hears the baby cry, but he's on his phone
Flipboard's louder than Crowder, and Facebook,
Oh, faces booked with tags look good to mum
The tears scatter across the molecules of the room,
But the care resonates with nothing.

But the dog, it usually plays with the baby,
Licks its pretty plump face, and jumps around.
Daddy thinks this could work, this could
Be the dam to the distracting noise of need.
Off you go doggy, off your chain, be dad and mum
To the ball of pain confused in its crib.

And off it went, off its chain, past dad and mum,
No Flipboard article or Facebook stream could
Deter it from its goal. For you see, it couldn't hear

the baby's cry from dad's and mum's absence:

The grumbling of its stomach bacteria was louder,
Maybe the smell of a wounded infant had reached
Their empty abode? Maybe this was their chance?
Maybe they could shut this best friend's will,
And make everything silent again?

Daddy hears the baby cry, but he's on his phone
Flipboard's louder than Crowder, and Facebook,
Oh, faces booked with tags look good to mum
The blood scatters across the molecules of the room,
But the care resonates with nothing.

(c) nyonglema

Categories
sadness

Talking with bullets? Lose-Lose #Cameroon

It was easier before:
    The cock crowed, Jesus turned, the tears flowed
    The cock crowed, I turned, and the shower flowed
    The cock crowed, luck turned, and tears flowed.

Easy solutions were easy to get while things were easy
But nine stitches rhyme with nine lives in their sick essay,
So time stitched hell and instead of being stitched in time
The fabric gaped open to swallow into its darkened slime
The baby, the bath water, the room, the parents, the villagers,
The fires, the char, the innocent, the pillaged, the pillagers.

It was easier before:
    But we always want more, and the tears flow
    But we always want war, and gun showers flow
    But we always taunt luck, and the tears flow.

Easy solutions were easy to get but Greed’s chains are titanium
Laced in a diamond lattice tying down the maestro of pandemonium.
The constitution had saved once, but those promises fell into the slime
Stitched by hell to cut workers’ pockets to benefit organised crime
Where everybody wants favour, everybody seeks the power to sign
At the expense of kids’ futures, mothers and fathers crying.

It was easier before:
    But now I need a visa, and I may not go
    But now I need a visa, to live in my own home
    But now I need a visa, to live.

Easy solutions will be easy to get where competence is worth any
But everybody wants favour, so logic took a stray bullet in the alley
And Cameronians closed their eyes on children crying
Everybody closed their eyes to the economy slowly dying
As if we were not one! I say we are one, and this war cannot be won
Until we become truly one: citizens, leaders (citizens), doing all to brighten the sun

It was easier before:
    But now everybody is strapped, like that fixes anything
    But now everybody is trapped like they can’t fix anything
    But you wear your ego like that fixes anything!

It is still easy now:
Let’s get back to being humans, talking with humans.
               That
                  fixes everything

(c) nyonglema

Categories
sadness

The End….#Cameroon #CivilWar

May never come.
The orcs hold up the putrid decay once a man’s foot
Sniff it and toss it into the cauldron, and scratch
The bumps on their backs dancing to the rays of the
Flames. There are not enough. They must hunt.
They need more, more, more.
A snort and off into the wild to get more blood
Take more lives.
The prophecy foretold of Dylogus, who would slay
The orcs, but when he was born, a sword
Visited his jugular vein, and his body the
Intestines of these vile creatures.
The sticks scream under the orc’s steps, the leaves
Rush out of harm’s way, and human laughs
Turn to blood-gurgling screams, and
All mourn Dylogus, and there’s growing sense
That the end of suffering was killed with him too.

(c) nyonglema

To all losing their lives in this senseless civil war, RIP: God’s got you.

Pray, pray that there’s an end to the madness. I have hope about the future, but bear great fear as well.

Categories
sadness

Tomatoes in the Wagons #stopWar

When I think of the wars in Cameroon, my mind goes to Asa’s Fire on the Mountain: “Could it be love for your country, or for the gun you use in killing?” she sings.

I think she missed the “greed” question, that could desire to sacrifice human life to sustain the funding of the war, and generate income for some uncanny souls. Well finite are the resources, finite are the humans


Tossed around in the wagons, the tomatoes bounce on each other
Squashed one at a time on a path they didn’t decide
On a path they must follow like human life.
Then the owner calls to the controller
And the engineer, yet noone hears
And squash, splat, squash
Till all left
Is just
One…

(c) nyonglema