Nimbus clouds in the horizon cause me to panic. Growing up in the heart of the tropics Where storms would rush in and push down crops, Screaming at our windows, banging with water, Asking me to open and taste Noah's flood, What comes after nimbus seems familiar to me. The temperature drops, as the wind rises, And the sky goes from the blue that smiles On glistening leaves on grassy hills singing hope To a grey gloom gathering pain to dump on us. Expectant I rush to close the windows, Take in the corn, the egusi, the clothes: What can I do about imminent bad weather? Nimbus clouds in the horizon caused me to panic. Growing up in the heart of the trouble, Where storms would rush in and burn down crops, Screaming at our windows, banging with boots, Asking me to open and taste my own blood, What comes after greed seems familiar to me. When peacemakers were sent to jail To keep illegal funds alive for all, I saw bullets raining down on innocent Lives seeking justice, but seeing just this: Death, fires, death, destruction, death. What has been the darkest period in this? 24/10/2020? Or the baby in the bubbling oil? Or the beheaded teacher, or the beheaded cop? Or the razed villages, or Ngarbuh, or Fake dialogue, or refusal to bring peace? Nimbus clouds in the horizon caused me to panic. Not anymore. The rain pours from my eyes seeing dreams Splattered in pools of blood on school floors. "We will protect them!" Nobody did. The teachers, the parents are incriminated As grief seizes their hearts and constricts To kill, and swallow. But who cares? 7 dead, many living Where the bullets can still take them out. We focus on the dead, forgetting the living Living in a hell that bullets can't end. (c) nyonglema Eis requiem aeternam Dei : Victory, Jenifer, Princess, Telma, Rema, Syndi, ....
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
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
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.
Le moustique chante dans ces oreilles pourtant pas endormies,
Qui guettent les pas des ravisseurs qui tour à tour font
La garde. Le silence est tel qu'on peut entendre les fourmis
"…ma reconnaissance au peuple camerounais de m’avoir renouvelé sa confiance…"
Erigés sont les poils des bras à découvert dans ce froid macabre,
La peur a laissé place aux sanglots qui se sont effacés par l'indifférence
Face à ces murs en terre battue … ah ce mot "battu" "battre", "abattre"
"… en prenant des mesures nécessaires pour préserver l’ordre public…"
Battues et coupées du monde, les larmes salées semblent laver le tartre
Comme un plâtre qui se brise laissant la fracture à découvert. Ils saignent.
« … Porte atteinte à notre Constitution… » « … d’être mieux
Associées à la gestion de leurs affaires … » Les lueurs d’espoirs s’éteignent
Avec l’arrivée du soleil. L’odeur d’Hadès parfume la rosée sur les jeunes fusils
« … nous avons maintenu notre cap vers l’émergence. » Il n’est pas 2035.
On se gratte la peau, on nettoie les cils. On boit de l’eau infestée de typhii.
Avec l’arrivée du soleil, l’odeur d’Hadès parfume la rosée sur leur règne
« … continuer dans la paix l’œuvre de construction » La guerre ajuste son masque
Ils se grattent la peau, et ils boivent du Lestac, dehors sous des corps la terre saigne.
The cats have given way to the lions, which is but normal,
And the dogs have left the hyenas too, which is but normal.
The deluge is feeding the thirsty soil, then drowning it.
Crowds gathered and stuck their eyeballs to the CRTs,
Tuned their ears to the frequencies scrambling out the court
Or council, picking the words apart, indulging in idea sport
And clinging to one hope…the unspoken one, the forbidden one.
Then the judge and justice did the Rocky dance and none won
And the lawyers lied, then bent the truth, and justice died,
While a whole nation bent over in pain and cried.
Never had I seen injustice in justice, or madness in wisdom.
The deluge is so bad that Noah is thinking of making a comeback
To the land he saved once, to save again, to save our pack.
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.
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.
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
You’d think “Maybe” if you listened to the complaints about Sogea-Satom’s slow operation lasting beyond schedule and creating craters cradling cars to sleep in watery coffins.
It’s 5:30pm, I’m on my way home.
Slowly in first gear through one I go.
Slowly through the second I go.
No. I tell you they aren’t civil.
To my right are two lanes of cars blocking pedestrians trying to stomp the pavement, and the cars honk as if right, and fight for right of way, while the police stare dismayed, and the rest on the normal way display anger, frustrated for they know all those will go first, not they, unless they go for the throat of the pedestrians and throw care away.
Clutch out, first gear, it moves. I brake.
There’s been days 10km turned to 100
And days 10km became as long as a trip to Kenya
When from the airport the person boarding calls you in traffic, “I have arrived”, and you bash your brains on the steering in a Kobain tantrum, and look right at those civilians as a bunch of Brady Ians when you consider they aren’t civil.
Clutch out, accelerate a little, and then brake.
One’s trying to skip the line in front of you as the police arrive and raise an index finger to remind them that the pavements are for feet, and it’s a car a lane, and she struggles with you not caring if her rush to arrive is marred by her marring your patient eagerness to see your home by scratches and dents on metal…hopefully she doesn’t.
Accelerate, brake, my soul breaks.
What’s wrong with these people? The same sad song daily, and the same solutions are brought daily, but learning is water on a ducks back so…
Clutch out, accelerate, brake.
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?