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Chuma
Nwokolo Jr.
Bombs
and Churning Milk
Dedication: for victims of landmines.
the
math was scribbled on the yellowing page
false,
anonymous
shorn
of further sense and referent
it
seemed a formula failed
arithmetic abandoned
as
cryptic as a minefield from a war forgotten
perhaps
it once was central to a tax refund
perhaps
coordinates for a lost landmine
today
it is a scribble on a page elapsed.
twelve
digits on a scrap,
still
adding
subtracting
exploding
while
bombs rain and
the
rage of hatred flares
it is
hard to enthuse over eggs
or
write the poetry of churning milk.
eggs
that hatch and are eaten.
milk
that sours unattended.
bombs
that wait
and
wait. and
wait
I do
not want a crate of thirty-six
or half
a dozen eggs.
I have
four pence no less
for one
egg no more
for the
rage that flames must flare
one day
at a time. at the lives
twisted
from eggs and milk
by bomb
in the barbed-wire grass.
Soothsaying 101
The days are evil, Al Mubari,
and we seek your wisdom:
my son would go to Spain,
would cross the seas and make his
way to Europe in a fishing boat.
here, your divining fee,
firstborn of Wisdom’s own firstborn,
whose evening eyes behold the gods.
whose morning song bewitches birds:
is this journey blessed, or what?
will he live?
will he prosper?
what see you beyond our mortal horizons?
*
hail from clouds and hair from skinless dogs,
tobacco from the hills of hell itself -
or cash in lieu thereof…
your fees are fat, Jado,
now hear the oracle:
I see cheques from Spain,
see wealth beyond the seas.
this son returns triumphant
on the shoulders of his peers.
go in peace in the crook of Fortune’s arm, Jado,
remember me when He comes knocking -
*
Look well, Mubari,
with a father’s eye
his brothers too are three years gone
without a word from Spain.
confound this mother’s doubt that says
he goes to seal their silence.
he alone is left,
and though the rains have failed again,
at least my river flows.
at least our rivers flow.
my womb did not fill thrice
to feed the hungers of the sea,
so look again, Al Mubari,
confound this mocking doubt that sees
me weeping daily here until my dying day.
what do you see beyond those horizons?
*
seers don’t lie. this is the lion’s prayer:
may tomorrow’s breakfast eat well today.
what I said is true, now and forever… but,
looking back with a father’s eye, Jado,
those cheques will bounce,
and the greatness comes with heaviness,
for he rides upon the shoulders of pallbearers.
Chuma
Nwokolo Jr. is a lawyer and
writer, author of Diaries of a Dead African and publisher of
African Writing Magazine (www.african-writing.com). He was
Oxford Ashmolean Museum's Writer-in-Residence for 2005-2007.
He Lives in the UK.
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