POEM: Oga Pastor

The gospel of prosperity

seems to have brought many

to the ranks of the Lord’s sheep,

ready to beatify android age pastors &

third generation prophets

who’re swift-tongued believers

in the truth that must impress

their subservient followers.

Speaking in tongues is the new trend

for self-proclaimed prophets &

knights in the celestial army.

In pure disregard of Christianity,

they claim command of the Holy Spirit.

Now, they share prophecies of wealth,

life, marriage and career breakthrough

as though God’s divine will

is at their beck and call.

The wretched blind flock of Jesus

are coaxed to drop their widow’s might

as offering and tithes for the glory

of sango daddy and mummy pastors:

the ones who’ve blinded the multitude

with scripted theatrical prophesies &

carefully mutilated biblical quotations

in order to purchase private jets

and fancy clothes in the name of our Lord.    

POEM: Nightfall in Abakwa

Nightfall in Abakwa

Terror descends on the city streets

in the cover of darkness

like Juden Holocaust trains

headed for Auschwitz. 

Reich protectors geared 

for extermination missions 

storm civilian neighborhoods 

with combat artillery, 

kicking down fences & 

doors of defenseless homes.

The quiet of dusk is broken

by agonizing shrieky screams;

wailing that tells of the torments

inflicted on us who dared to speak.

The crunching footsteps

of solid leather boots approaching

freezes the hearts of we

whose tomorrow is not a promise.

The murderous hands

of lemon green berets lurk

in the dark doing irreparable damage

to helpless fragile flesh

as the marauding and looting

blood thirsty hounds execute

the final solution.

A few yards off a lady screams

as though in child birth malaise:

one of her sons just received a bullet

in the head, his brains splattered 

on the couch like strawberry smoothie. 

The second, beaten to pulp,

wailing in agony and sure 

of eminent vaporization 

in underground gas chambers

is hauled into the military truck upfront.

It drives off speedily as it came.

The commandant shouts to the woman:

“il est un terroriste, oubliez-le, anglofou!”

His voice is coarse and bitter,

filled with vile hate and disdain.

We’re the forsaken, bound in shackles

for the language we speak &

branded as potential republican danger

to the rogue state of Kamangola

that governs by blood founts

of aggravated torture and terror tactics,

and spies viciously on the populace

from the high tower overlooking Abakwa.

Daylight may quail the fears of women 

and children but unfortunately,

nightfall dines with mayhem & terror.

Blood sucking vampires and gangsters 

seem ever to draw nigh with the dark

bringing with them the woes

and tribulations of the previous

bloody night: Screams, Screams !!!      

 

POEM: Takenmbeng

Takenmbeng

Grey women step on the streets

bare footed and scarcely strapping 

something just above their chest lines.

No braziers or undergarments

to shade their privacy but the single loin 

that loosely hangs above their breasts.

Their faces are smeared with ash wood

& some rare traditional crimson dust.

     

With peace leaves in between their lips,

mortars and pestles, they sit in semi-circles 

with bowed heads. 

Cursed is anyone who dares

take interest in their gifts of nature,

for they shall meet their doom 

as assigned by the ancestors of the land.

The atrocities endured by their children

are hideous and very many;

torture, killings and abductions

have brought grief to the republic.

The Takenmbeng is come

like the Chong to invoke the gods

& bring justice to the bleeding hearts

of a mutilated people here.

The elderly women pound their mortars

while the younger ladies sing the names

of those who have inflicted sorrow

on the wretched people.

It’s a frightful sight, the women talk

with the gods and ancestors and  

those who understand simply

close their eyes and disappear.

The curious frog brothers across the river 

excited with female nudity stare

at their own demise as the women 

flip their loins to expose their jerusalems.

The powerful women’s cult has spoken,

what ensues will sure awe the eyes.

Many were stung by bees &

others merely slumped to their graves.

Others came forth with swollen scrotum 

that astounded the medics.

The Takenmbeng,

any man carries his head and ill omen.

These are the tribe’s women

who’ll smear the graves

of quislings with menstrual blood

and curse ministers without portfolios.

They’re the ones who shall lead

the enemies of the people of the land

to the sacred ancestral shrine

when it will be time to cleanse the land.

   

POEM: In the Shadows of Mobil Nkwen

In the Shadows of Mobile Nkwen

Kinkily dressed ladies back the neon lights 

from crowded shaggy pubs &

their shadows reflect on the dirty tarmac.

Their silhouettes are cast on the streets

revealing the folding and faulting contours 

of endowed African women.

Popping breasts from string blouses

serve as billboard adverts for clients.

Their buts tell of all feminine passions

to be served those who wish to swim

in their nightly crimson pleasures.

They come in all sizes, shapes and colours, 

so everyone may be satisfied.

In the shadows of Mobil Nkwen,

everyone goes about their business

without interference from anybody.

Women roast their fish, and others sell

whatever you may want to buy.

Shadow ladies gently sip beer or

whiskey as others quietly inhale &

blow puffs of thick smoke

into the already congested air

while others chatter with their colleagues.

At times they beckon on passers-by,

offering a display of things on sale,

promising in whispering voices

to provide before sales services

as the potential client may prefer.

They have no favorite clients,

nor do they discriminate against races or

the rich and the poor, the clean and the dirty:

Meals on the menu are served

without bias to anyone who pays right.

The city’s big boys; from lawyers

to doctors, government delegates to mayors,

corrupt politicians to fat-purse business moguls, 

company commanders to corporals, 

bikers to mechanics, truck pushers

to street sweepers, bartenders, fey men and thieves, 

everyone is served from the same pot 

without prejudice but in accordance

with how much they are willing pay.

Ask why they ply their trade &

they’ll tell tales that generate tears

from dry eyes: some are single mothers,

others are orphans while others are rape victims,

most just want a means to survive.

They know the hazards of their trade,

yet they ply it all the same.

The teenage girls bitterly complain

of domestic violence and child abuse.

To them, they’re safe under the mentorship

of the elderly ones who seemingly

have tutored them well for business

in the shadows of Mobil Nkwen.  

 

Slay Queens & Slay Kings

You act up all rich and civilized

on Facebook, Instagram and Snap chat

as though your roots are paved 

with ivory, gold thread and delicate topaz.

You sure are deceiving your future,

‘cos we know where you’re from

since we’re also from there.

Luncheons with chilled champagnes &

sojourns in starred hotels or 

guest houses paid for by another’s credit card

will never change your station or

stature, but hard work sure will.

Get your grind on your hustle straight,

foot the bills sometime &

we’ll hear your story anytime.

It’s a shame the photo-shopped pictures 

& ultra filtered Snap chat videos

you post everywhere on social media

have hoaxed your fickle minded brains

to believe in your own foolish lie

of being a celebrity. 

The LAPIRO style: Poetry for Change

Niyi Osundare holds that poems are songs of the marketplace. this is to emphasise the simplicity of poetry and the colloquial nature of its language. Pidgin is therefore a very vital tool in passing across messages through poetry. Look at this poem about the socio-economic misery of a contemporary African country wonderfully captured in the pidgin we all can identify with.

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Cameroun Oboso

Sauvéteur chakarah, Cameroun go before!

Remé ana repé them for ngola

dang yaa nwang for di epoque

for démocracie avanceé ana

liberalisme communale.

For di tam wey politique for gros ventres

dang gi laiser faire for ministres

ana politiciens for briguêr

mandat sur mandat for ngomna ana

évacuation de la chôse publique

sans compassion ana fear for Jésus,

na yi crise économique nova temmé

for pays des grandes intéllectuelles

du dimanche sur débat.

We dey daso na for obsérvation;

make delegué régionale ana ministre d’état

tori we weda dang ereké vieux pêres them

get quelque chôse to offer pays dans lequel;

licencier na vendeur for biscuits, bita kola,

ana bonbons acoliceé for Avénue Kénnedy,

bachélier na ben-skinneur for Abakwa ana

GCE O’Level  na cutting mbanga for Penja.

Pays di bouger molo molo dans les grandes 

réalisations ana démocracie avancé

for l’âge androide ana chôrale for unité 

nationale dans le sia sia. Na yi Ngola dang 

condamné ana yi njaka them for esclavage 

moderne for Maghreb ana Asie avant 2035.

POETRY IS EASY, KILL YOUR FEAR & ENJOY

Considering the lukewarm attitude people have towards reading and or writing especially poetry, it's my wish to bring a revived spirit in the reading culture of Cameroonians, 

Africans and the world at large.

This enterprise is an attempt to break the ice with regards to creative literature and most especially Poetry. We must break with the age old mentality that poetry is an esoteric genre for which one needs initiation or induction in order to comprehend its message. Here, I shall be putting up poems of my own creation, written in the most simple language in which poetry has ever been written. This is in an attempt to clear the                                                                                          fear for this subject area. My simple approach to poetry is encouraged by the fact that the genre has evolved over the years from a writing couch in the seductive patterns of metrical rhyme to various forms of content centered writing. This is most especially true with African poetry. Contemporary african poets are more concerned with content rather than form. Unfortunately, some Western scholars may and are still hooked to the early notions of poetry that celebrated musicality rather than message. By trying to make poems rhyme at all cost, poets sometimes inadvertently sacrifice meaning to the detriment of comprehension for their readers. they refuse to acknowledge that their readership is not only based on a handful of scholars and researchers. They seemingly have sacrificed the locals on the altar of esoterism.

                                                                         Poetry is Easy Kill Your Fear

My poems most often capture contemporary Cameroonian realities, those of Africa and the world as a whole. The themes handled range from politics, bad governance, corruption, embezzlement, socio-economic woes of Cameroonians, the plight of Anglophone Cameroonians and issues related to love, African tradition and culture, failed intellectualism and the dwindling hope and faith in modern African politicians and elites. As events unfold on the Cameroon stage be them political, social, economic or cultural, we shall be invited to converge here to make our points of view heard through enriching discussions and arguments, commentaries and intellectual debates.

Take a look at this my Hexa-Verse poem entitled "Signs and Visions", 
NOTICE how SIMPLE the Language is? 

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Signs and Visions

The signs are ominous,

the visions are sinister.

They’re written on the faces

of all and everyone here.

There’s a voice in the dark

that speaks sadly but loudly

of Sodom & Gomorrah.

There is anger in the air &

rage in the eyes of compatriots.

Destruction looms in the horizon,

betrayal breathes pain and fury.

Why and how, did we get here?

Who brought us this far?

The answers are there in the signs,

and the present testifies for itself.

The signs are terrifying,

the visions are calamitous.

Ambanasom’s Dudum is here &

hope is but a farfetched memory.

The visions are jeremiads-

horror and terror lurks among us.

Death gapes and screams resound,

tears flow and flesh quakes.

Tormentors still hang on

like rain beaten rats in August:

what will be will be &

The Word shall be fulfilled.