Jammed #douala #lagos

No strawberry, no mango, no raspberry or sour fruit,
Just me, angry honks buzzing overhead, while smoke stabs the planet.
A seed is sown, a green one that whispers jealousy, painted
With the blood of all those cars on another way, going ahead, going away
While angry honks buzz overhead, and I’m still, stabbing the planet.

It’s jam, there’s a little too much of it in the glass jar,
Staring at me wicked-eyed, like : stay there, let the ants
Eat your sticks on the clutch, while you wish to shift the stick.

The sun gets bored, the wheels move an inch, no just a pinch
Of the jam. It dips it in vinegar and pours on my tongue, water
Water, cars all around, but no water in site, and no shops in sight
And no bottle inside my hell, where the air conditioning drones
And the air mocks my impatient fingers drumming on the wheel, to the

Rhythm: heartbeat, temple vein, anger, heartbeat, temple vein, bigger
Stick shift, clutch, move, heartbeat temple vein, honk, frown, bigger
Thinking about jams, how delicious they are with bread, strawberry, other
But how this jam is going to call the raven on me stabbing the planet,
Stuck in the evil stare of the glass jar, wishing to shift,
That’s a real bother.

(c) Nyonglema

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Wrong place #paris #kolofata

Nine burnt souls float over roasted mayhem where souls are tugging their way out of resilient bodies.

All they remember is a bright light; the deafening din rushed towards their maimed bodies like Sir Hewett, and you know what they say about not hearing the bang…

They will no longer bathe in the bitter burnt flesh fragrance heavy in the smoke blundering through the debris.

They will not agonise with the grunts and moans coming from where wood and flesh, metal and flesh, and earth and flesh dance the Black Swan with darker shades of hell and oozing red.

But, they will nevermore hum a lullaby to the drowsy eyes of toddler dreams, nor bless the lips of a lover with a touch of their lips.

Their seat shall slice onions into the hearts of those sharing meals at the dinner table, and the past tense will follow every mention of the scathing memories of how happy they made this one or that one.

The media will mention their names for all to hear….or maybe not. This didn’t happen in Paris; who cares if 2 prepubescent girls blow up a refugee camp in Kolofata?

(c) Nyonglema
 

Laudatur probitas #politics

It all starts with a good intention

If I could change the world? 
The switching of seasons can’t bring constancy of reason,
Where my people live treason, and profound division
In silence, in a world
Where their full potential is nobody’s goddamn mission. 

And escalates with good intention

	And that’s insane! 
My damn mission is to alleviate your burdens, 
	Elevate the status quo, no matter what the wardens
	Say in this bloody prison, I’m breaking the chains
	I’m going to fight for you sisters and brethren! 

And intentions with fodder gain attention
And graciously turn to further actions
	
	Fight till my blood’s gone. 
	Walk with me, fallen and lost, walk with me past the present
	Into a future where there’s no sullen, no dreams evanescent
	Only throngs growing strong, 	
	And I’ll make you see Heaven on Earth when I’m president!

And the actions grow to the expectations
Of those good intentions

	And now I’m president, how much better!
	See justice live in day, live from vampirism of before, 
	See collaboration with the opposition, but I want more! 
	Let’s find solution to every matter 
	Through collaboration, I’ve told you I need more and more. 

And temptation comes to haunt the decisions
As attention clouds intentions, warping the actions

	I told you I need more, more! 
	Walk with me. What? I said coercion isn’t a foreign language,
	When the army can assuage, or assiege your verbiage
	Of disses to me, and my chores!
	Walk with me now, or you’ll be safe from hampering us in your cage!

And the actions warped by other intentions…

	For we must reach this target, 
	Set by him who pays our bills. We must comply with the majority’s wish.
	Nothing else matters than keeping this power I have, this power which 
	Ebbs from my assets, 
	And if you think of stopping me, we’ll have you served a gifted dish

And the actions warped by other intentions…

	And if anybody complains, 
	We are taking them out. Ungrateful lot, I made you who you are
	And now you question the very mind that took you out of mar
	Into a new existence plane?
	Damn you all, let’s see who can get me off this high of power!

And the actions kill the budding good intentions, 
As if good intentions were greed, 
Forgetting, where they came from, 
Forgetting that they were fighting greed.
 
And that all started with a good intention.

(c) Nyonglema

Unus pro duobus #unity #bringBackOurInternet

Trust is the dragonfly of days of drench,
Though both brothers bother same from the same trench,
Wherein chains chip away their days into nothingness.
Their solace now whips around in he depths of the Loch Ness.

Universe 1: Damnation

“Brother conceal my future escapade cleverly
That I may bring panacea to you and me quite early”
But Trust had left the pit: “Together we are,
Together we remain or together to go far.”

“But, but two easy targets defeat our purpose!”
“But, but two easily defeat our perpetrators!”
“But the foundation of such a plan is our chains,
And one must be deception to the watching banes”

But Trust had left the pit: “Together we are,
And as am bigger, you’re not going far”
Trust is the dragonfly of days of drench,
Though both brothers bother same within the same trench.

“But…”, “I warned, and now your scorn means no lunch
Till your mind leaves the rocket of that mad hunch.
Together we are..” “And together we slowly fade
We won’t go far by licking their laurels of jade,

I stand my ground. Keep the food, but you shall
Conceal my escapade, or see the death of your pal.”
“Bluff, buff bluff! No food, let’s see the hourglass
Of your resolve heap hunger: Yes the idea will pass!”

Universe 2: Salvation

But in an alternate universe where Trust serves
The needy with new pathways out of tight curves:
“But, but two easy targets defeat our hidden purpose!”
” Yes, one safe, then two will easily defeat the perpetrators!”

Then the bigger worked at the weak link to free the boon
And Trust infused them with the will, and one was free
A shadow in the dim light of hell’s guarded cocoon
Saw light again, heard birds sing to the dancing trees.

The tears exploded out his accommodating eyes down
His cheeks, mingled with joy, and hope for a future
As he forged the mettle of captivity’s breakdown
One step of freedom at a time: the overture.

And Trust still lived with their click: “Together we are,
Together we’ll remain so together we will go far.”
“Yes, brother, let’s head to where we’ve sought long
And bring back ours. First water and food make you strong”

The battle brief baffled the captors, and the strong captive
Saved by friends welcomed Trust in the smiles of yesteryear,
Smiling the smile of one whom Genghis Khan would reprieve,
As they left what hell had become home for more than a 100 years.

(c) Nyonglema

Breathe ….not #bringbackourInternet

Breathe, breathe…I wish I could breathe.
The infant’s face crimped into morbid contortion by pending asphyxia
Breathe, the breath Adam received
The breath we all so very need,
Will dad listen? Will mum listen? Do they care about pending hypercapnia?
Breathe, no I won’t breathe till they care
Till somewhere in those stones a rose springs
Till within their souls they yearn to listen to me
Listen to my tears choking within my lungs
Curdling under my eyelids, hanging on a lash
As the echo of my dying complaints.
Did they hear it? I know it escalated from whimpers
To murmurs to screams…but all are now dying.
Like me, losing my life each dying second,
But nobody cares.

(c) Nyonglema

Power #africa #cameroon #noViolence

Is it the dark tunnel through which the bullet
Travels to draw blood and replace breath
With the reek of death?

Is it the bland plunder in schools of the culled kids
For their colour or deep rage born
From the system’s scorn?

Is it the grab-n-lockup foolishness you’re pulling
When any born cause is a menace for you:
Jail or the Reaper’s costume?

Is it the canisters seeking kids’ gullets
With gaseous odours of real painful
Teary eyes, pitiful?

Where’s your power? In the uniform or weapon?
In the blood on the floor, or the one on your hands?
In the lives of the sons and daughters not to see tomorrow?

Where’s your power? I would have thought of more
In food for the poor, sick souls’ solace, in infrastructure!

Where’s your power? I guess we’ll never know.

(c) Nyonglema

Destroying a country

Ever seen termites work a mighty tree down to a heap of saw dust and firewood? Out in Babadjou in Cameroon, I saw a couple of these, and it made me consider what happens when our politicians pilfer to fuel their expensive lifestyles….little things can break great things.

 

First, add a male and female termite.

Bullets and teargas canisters waltz on innocent citizens
And smoke and mud mingle macabre muffled paintings.
They are chanting “Freedom” to an invisible steel prison.

Then give them a tree to infest.

Angry the mob drenches the streets with angry chants
Division wrought by the Puppet Master now works its magic
The brother is the enemy, the cause is forgotten, just angry rants.

Then leave them to grow in might.

You bemoan the infection to  your brother so different but similar in pain,
But, they keep pushing you to see the messages not on the wall with cryptic
Words and thoughts from their hearts making them look better than your disdain.

Building hoardes of this pest.

The words they utter offer no solace, but promises on sandy beaches where
The crab harvests the turtle’s eggs, and multiplies to infest the beach
Where hope was born still, barren, hopeless, but unaware

Riding the bark, then diving inside.

That the votes that put them there were in good will, with faith and hope as motivators
While the campaign swishes were but fantasy to match the populace’s wishes
To have political saviours, but now clad in the armor of the captivator

Working the bottom to the crest.

Infernal  infestation by inhumane inhabitants instigating abominations,
Abrogating harbours, abolishing honour, abridging hope, love, faith,
And leading desperate souls to enlightenment in self-termination.

There: a wooden giant just died.

(c) Nyonglema

Another type of love #politics

They said they loved us.
They said what had hovelled us this long
Would melt in the ideas they’d put to physical form, fixing the forms, printing new laws to make more feasible new morns where dreams grow, where the beams of oppression become beaming faces facing greatness in all facets of a society phasing out the old, and phrasing in the new, and enacting, and without feigning bringing hope and growth anew.

They said we’d love it.
They said the picture would be bling
To the point of our dreams’ Everests, that they’ll brave the storms of whether to go with the hot or the cold, with the dry or with mould, or the new or the old, or whatever internal or from other holds could chip at our wishes, that they’d protect us, shield us in a new shell more robust than the previous, and keep our homes, culture, and aspirations safe anew.

They said they loved us.
The said we’d love it,
And this they said in words we’d listen to and miss the meaning shrouded like a zombie’s soul within idioms and colourful slogans painting derelict walls of our city gloom, and filling the air of family time with promises of Utopia today, Utopia tomorrow after Hell yesterday, and trickling out as if not premeditated and making us believe in Canterbury tales anew.

But now they hate us,
And hey! We don’t love it,
This stagnation like mosquito larvae infested ponds leaking putrefaction to our already putrefied systems, with corruption and stealing…no… embezzling being the order of the day, and deleting competition or young petitions to fix the predicament with silent words halted by violent wars. This stagnation so old we’ve lived that it even starts to feel like new.

Oh how they hate us
And hate that we don’t love it,
For to lord it over us longer they need us to be coy, kowtow, and shut up like Guantanamo torture secrets or that moment in a gory movie you are caught up between darkness and the bloodied blade and to speak your mind would Soweto you and your family in one instant, and depending on the riches you had, it will be featured, or not, on the news.

Oh how they hate us,
And how we wish we could change this
Situation with feeble will to exchange our lives with joy in the future generations as others before bothered to, feeble strength we are deluded to have whereas Gandhi taught us all by shooting up the opposition with words and Christ-like pain affliction and acceptance.
(c) Nyonglema

Sing for mum #ripNzie #Anne-Marie

When you cross the Pearly Gates, will you sing for mum?

I recall those tender dew watered Yaoundé morns

When the cassette spun your voice out the Kenwood speakers,

Lulling my childhood ears to plains which white lilies adorn

And bees buzz the harmony to your vocals and the horns.

 

I recall especially as each new year died to birth another one

That mum would pop the cassette as metronome to the countdown.

And we would be eagerly watching the TV, eyes darting from clock

To TV, from clock to TV, holding on to the present’s each sound,

Conscious these moments shall roam hence only in Memory’s town.

 

The lyrics were beyond my mono-lingual grasp, but for “Liberté”

Where I felt freedom of my spirit soaring, and then “Bonne année”

Which nobody needed to explain. This is all I can take with me round

Memory’s town. But mum sure knew all the songs, and would sing away

As I watched in marvel as her lips waved a magical musical day

 

So Ma’am Nzie, this only I ask of you as you walk the path she took:

Let those words I didn’t understand but which my childhood shook

Pour once again beyond Peter, with love messages from me, three and more

And please, let her… please… harmonize once more every single hook

As once she did, but now in praise to my Maker as He lovingly looks.

 

(c) Nyonglema

 

 

 

 

 

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