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
Tag Archives: cameroun
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
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
Death from a bike #bendskin #okada #opep #accident
I just saw a man die on the streets
With blood and broken glass and metal
Twisted from a sleek Senke bike
To an unrecognizable heap of twisted petals,
Black petals of Death, as it is used to strike.
Yes, I saw that man die on the streets,
While this morning he forehead-kissed his kids
And wife, promising to bring home a meal that night
And they watched him leave with hopeful eyelids,
Not knowing there’ll be dirges and tears over hunger that night.
I saw that man die on the streets,
After a mad driver rushing over pothole puddles
Couldn’t stop his truck in time, and rushed over his body
And though he’d rejected all passengers, my blood curdles,
For this single death already is such a tragedy.
I just saw a man die on the streets,
With blood, glass, metal, and mud
Littered in a gruesome Picasso on the ground,
And the tears flow down my cheeks thinking “Oh God!”
Orphans, widow, pain, more poverty born in one death on the ground.
(c) Nyonglema
Ali Baba and the 40 thieves (aka african governance)
Standing in front of the hidden entrance
On horseback, with loud sacks
Clinking as loot hit loot.
With smiles of satisfaction adorning their faces
The chief said the magic words, and in went the team;
Safe from the spoiled, safe from the world,
Ready to go back out and lay misery on poor souls
(C) Nyonglema
FOOTBALL
Zillion supporters screaming, a loud buzz,
Yearning to return home cheered by vitory.
Xerox machines preparing the next day’s papers; Max
Wit for the shame or fame of a member of the show.
Violent vitriols from commentators like engine rev
Unites with supporters’ glee at likes of Eto’o or Kanu
To spur skill at each minute to get even one stunning stunt
Spirits soar, sink, so it is, for here serenity bores.
Roulette, lifté, counter-attack by one party raising the roar.
Quick kick! Oh no! Replay?! Why not? That must join the FAQ
Pray the corner slays the opponent; oh that header was sharp!
Oh he missed that goal again! No replay?! Hell no!
No! Now he’s channelled that ball too late for the man,
May the coach coach correctly and call him to quit the team!
Leave the pitch you little loss-bringing imp! LOL!
Khaki-wearing “messer” I can even get your reek!
Just as our jests are about to milk out laughs, I couldn’t find a word to end with “J”.
Instead I had a whole lof of them J-starting words. So I
Hunched to think, but then looked up at the BROOHAH:
GOAL GOAL!! Oops the scorer is the Mr. Bug!
Fooled? No, I’m still for him leaving,( Scoring oaf!)
Even though this elation, release and joy, came from his device!
Defensive tactics, offensive backing up, I can almost get mad
‘Cos the best defence is attack Doc!
Bye losers, we took this easy. Supporters bob
Away, and the whole stadium sleeps in the starlight bathed by mother Luna.
(c) Nyonglema
HOME (2007)
Home’s laughter and joy, where good thoughts mature;
Home’s water for life, and without colour or odour;
Home makes eyes water, but beneath blesses each smile.
Not home the seat of vile yoke-wielders Satan couldn’t beguile.
Not home despair growing from the tree you didn’t help spawn.
What’s home when your peers relish as sadness does you a turn?
No! Not home if I can’t rest at night and wish the morrow.
Home’s children in the present hopeful and eyes turned to the future;
Home’s elders drawing the past to give the present’s pleasant contour;
Home’s youths building the future with the puerile and senile,
All hand in hand lifting Home higher in each while.
Not home hearts buckling under unfulfilled dreams, hearts that yearn!
What’s home if children’s present shames elders’ past, and in turn
Home’s youths’ future condemns their very life so hollow?
Home’s working for your bread and to your produce more manure;
Home’s doing what you crave and in your grave be happy manure.
Home’s scorn for the hedonists, respect for the agile.
Not home the heart-tearing feeling of drying the Nile!
Not home where your greatest achievements meet the urn!
What’s home when greater achievements are mere kindergarten turns?
No! Not home my teary eye sharing in my fellowmen’s sorrow!
Home’s being satisfied that all one needs is secure;
Home’s not wants achieved, but necessities from the store;
Home’s absence of frustration at getting blamed your job’s an empty vial
Because home didn’t offer the tools you needed, though they’re there all the while!
Not home when the doctor gets blamed that the propellers don’t turn;
What’s home when the shoe mender mends body burns?
No! Not home a place where squares fit circles in a mentality so shallow.
There was home in my heart as TV waves my growing heart would lure.
Homewards, I’d think, into prospects of rejoicing in a reality so pure;
Reality, home to opportunities, possibilities: me and my dreams down the aisle,
With home’s resources building a mighty Rome in the eyes of a little child.
That was home as my blood pumped and I awaited my turn
To give home all my feeble self could afford. All I could learn
As age called was broken dreams, and the pain of a morose morrow.
(c) Nyonglema Pisoh
waghni 