tribalpoetry

Africa: Rhythm of Memorial (introduction poem)

2008-01-04T02:00:00.000-08:00

The chilling truth that people under the control of cult leaders are capable of the most horrible atrocities imaginable can not be overemphasised… so the best solution is that we writers have to educate them, for in such education we promote peace

We need to do this for African freedom and liberty.

Let us reveal the religious and ethnic leaders who promote a culture of absolute obedience, separation from the “other”, and embrace violence, let us look for them and warn the authorities in such a region of what may happen when such leaders are bought

This Kenya crisis is not the first, our continent is unjustly victimized even today
Because of the loyalty of these leaders

Priestly craft against our culture
All natives lost to papal claims
The ideal freedom dearer than the blood
Of brothers condemned to a cruel death

What agitate us to throw stones?
What hate roam confined within?
That restless spirit wanting to be freed
And rampage within the African coast

Slave to oppression we moan about it
Cried to slavish and religious superstitions
Till the charms of hate release
The struggle of the degrading claims

2008-01-01T23:51:00.000-08:00

In Conflict writing…They came in landing

2007-08-17T06:08:00.000-07:00

In Conflict writing…They came in landing

I can’t explain the exact difference
between memory and recollection
both to my poetry
are like analyzing
…a dream
In Conflict writing…
They came in landing
craft
and airplanes
and helicopters
and the breath were
the hot steam of war
sigh a murmur
from the congregated dead
ziz-zaged as the arrangement of this poem
I recreate
A land of racial ghost
and ethnic fear
Moss grow of the dead
as carpet on the trunk of trees,
and on a new page
a fresh grave lay beneath
dripping branches
underneath each story
I recollect of politicians
…the
Phantom turning to the amazing heat of flames
when they encounter resistance
from the poor
and the hungry
memory of the militants
recollection of religion
politics
area boys
genocide! Genocide! genocide
recollection
and if a native was to see it
recollection of elders
…them as they corrupt the nation
the native was shot
or killed by accidental discharge
faith in Nigeria and Africa are broken
Bodies are broken
Branches of culture were searing,
thorn and thrown
I recollect a little blood
were bone poked through flesh
Talks about the genocidal child
In Lagos street
Interred, the corpse were lain flat
In the north as in Somalia
The hillside grave drained
Our literary voices
Till rigor mortis set in
On Association of Nigerian Authors
We write with the biggest pay
Because
…for us the darkness is not a curse
The unborn child is corrupt
Me; tribalpoetry is also first a sham
The thankless occupation
That will kill me eventually

Topic…Herbed Education for Sustainable Development

2007-02-26T06:46:00.000-08:00

By Sylvester Oseremen Omosun
Planning Officer; Bells University of Technology, Ota
www.Bellsuniversity.org
www.myspace.com/africantribalpoetry
08052130879

“I have traced all things from the start with accuracy that you may know fully the certainty of the things”
Luke 1- 3, 4, Isaiah 35- 5, 6.

This write-up is part of a resourceful research undertaken during my annual leave from work, between September 11th to October 9th 2006, the topic seeks to clarify the use of Medicinal Plants in relation to Sustainable Development, and why I think the strategy employed by saint Benedictine Monastery to the indigenes of Esanland [The venue researched were the towns around the Saint Benedict Monastery at Ewu-Esan in Edo Central Senatorial District] should be incorporated into the Nigeria education system in lieu with the aim of the United Nations Decade of Education for Sustainable Development, with special appraisal on Fr Anselm Adodo; coordinator of PAX herbal clinic and research laboratories.
“The aim of the United Nations Decade of Education for Sustainable Development is to promote and improve the integration of education for sustainable development into the educational strategies and action plans at all levels and sectors of education in all countries.”
The decade running from 2005 to 2014 was declared by The United Nations as “the decade of Education for Sustainable Development.” According to the United Nations Education, Scientific and Cultural Organization (UNESCO),
Below I will try to explain how with the aid of a monastery herbal garden, a monk has affirmed with UNESCO key themes in education for sustainable development in Nigeria, which are:
1. Overcoming Poverty through herbal medicine,
2. Health Promotion,
3. Environmental Conservation and Protection,
4. Rural Transformation: Education for Rural People ,
5. Understanding and Peace,
6. Sustainable Production and Consumption ,
7. Cultural Diversity and,
8. Information and Communication Technologies (ICT).
Plants are the ideal educational tools for the natural habitat attributed to Africa, and I believe that the study of the various African plants can be used in virtually every subject across the sustainable development initiative as well as the University curriculum if accredited. I also believe that the fate of the world’s environment will depend to a great extent on the actions and decisions of plants conservation for the said development strategy, my belief planted this article
· Environmental Conservation and Protection,
During a two week period of researching some of the herbs gardens with the priest who is currently pursuing two doctoral degree programmes in sociology and history of medicine, I observed how some youthful workers between the ages of 16 and 21 worked to conserve one of the monastery gardens, fencing of the adjourning passages with new flowerbeds; containing mostly special species of herbal and drought resistant shrubs.
Observing the workers, a bible passages came into the field of reasoning {Then God said, "Let the land produce vegetation: seed-bearing plants and trees on the land that bear fruit with seed in it, according to their various kinds." And it was so. The land produced vegetation: plants bearing seed according to their kinds and trees bearing fruit with seed in it according to their kinds. And God saw that it was good. Gen 1:11-12}
The Monastic herbal garden caters for over 10,000 people in the last six month, Direct contact with such natural surroundings is new to many of the visitors, and responses show that it is a very enjoyable experience for all these people, because many of the people who take part in the monastery awareness seminar, as well as these coming in search of healing are from urban areas and have had little or no contact with the natural world as quoted in the passage above, and often it greatly enriches the overall value of the education they receive. That is what it did to me; the reason this research ended up being a lot of fun
I believe that combining environmental conservation with youth employment is an essential step to sustainable education initiatives lacking in many higher institutions and religion today, the employment program whereby the youth are recruited into the monastery ground provides a structured learning environment where participants developed basic job readiness skills while receiving mentoring for future prospect
How does the PAX Herbal Research Laboratories conserve and protect the Environment for sustainable development in Edo Central Senatorial District?
According to Fr. Ikeke, PhD, a catholic priest, who is the director of the Justice, Development, and Peace Commission of the diocese of Warri.

What is sustainability? What is its relevance to the herbal question? The question of sustainable development gained prominence in the late 1980s. It was promoted by The World Commission on Environment and Development. The World Commission says Promoting development and protecting the environment should not be separated. They are one integral whole. In the official website of UNESCO, it is affirmed that:
This new paradigm of sustainable development establishes linkages across poverty alleviation, human rights, peace and security, cultural diversity, bio-diversity, food security, clean water and sanitation, renewable energy, preservation of the environment and the sustainable use of natural resources. This view of sustainable development seeks to ensure a better quality of life for everyone now and for the generations to come.
The phrase “preservation of the environment and the sustainable use of natural resources” are of great interest to us here. The forests, plants, animals, and other natural things which herbal practitioners gather their herbs and materials are part of natural resources or the natural world. They need to be used in a sustainable manner. They should not be depleted. The benefits in the natural world are destined not only for our own good but the good of future generations and other biotic life flourishing. The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches on the integrity and respect for all creation as follows:
(2415) The seventh commandment enjoins respect for the integrity of creation. Animals, like plants and inanimate beings, are by nature destined for the common good of past, present, and future humanity. Use of the mineral, vegetable, and animal resources of the universe cannot be divorced from respect for moral imperatives. Man's dominion over inanimate and other living beings granted by the Creator is not absolute; it is limited by concern for the quality of life of his neighbor, including generations to come; it requires a religious respect for the integrity of creation.
Such conservative strategy is a crucial aspect of the works done in saint Benedictine, it open our eyes to the importance of plants in our everyday lives while enriching our learning experiences, such a study if addressed in the educational sector will inspire an appreciative and understanding of nature in today’s people
The goal behind setting up many of the herbal gardens in the districts is to conserve those species found infrequently in the wild. The resolute tending of herbs will be useful to the entire community as and when any need arises
Such courses were plants are being conserved sustainable are being studied in countries like china and India, the study of herbology is an example, Nigeria can take a green leaf from them, a designed learning strategy to make erudition of plants interesting, where students learn how plants can be used for food, medicine and shelter. And thereby provides information not only on the plants themselves, but also on the culture and history of the people involved in the usage of such medicinal plants
{Then God said, "I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food. And to all the beasts of the earth and all the birds of the air and all the creatures that move on the ground—everything that has the breath of life in it—I give every green plant for food." And it was so. Genesis 1:29-30}
the program employed by the Pax researchers for the conservation of medicinal plants gardens supports education initiatives noted all over the united Nation initiative for African society and highlights the importance of the local environment in conservation.
Here the community get the training from the monastery, a training by a qualified horticulturist teach them basic usage on their locally available herbs/plants right from nursery, conservation, practical identification to preparation
I agree whole heartedly with to Fr. Ikeke when he said that… Many people, even educators, are unaware of this decade of education for sustainable development. Because of this, the benefits of the decade cannot be fully distilled to the grassroots and daily life. It should be noted that the United Nations decade of education for sustainable development is not simply meant for educators or educational institutions in the real sense. We know that education should be a task for all social agents including religious bodies and indigenous institutions like the herbal medical institutions. In the light of the United Nations decade of education for sustainable development, no human subject or issues should be discussed without reference to the decade. Every purpose of the United Nations is to make life on earth better in a healthy planet. Today we live in a global planet and we are cosmopolitan or global citizens. The issues that affect the global world should not escape our frame of reference. A global issue that has implications for every locality is the issue of developing a sustainable society.
Researching the monastery garden has heighten awareness of the need for conservation and herbal education to the local communities, working in a research based university has given me the platform for air my views
The rarest essence from the monastery
Come streaming down from Esanland
The mandrakes yield their fragrances
Re-awaken in me -the healing faith
“We need to promote the scientific exploration of Africa flora and fauna for the benefit of our people,” Governor Igbinedion on the Commissioning of the herbal clinic

Yahoo! Mail - tribalpoetry@yahoo.com

2007-02-09T01:52:00.001-08:00

Yahoo! Mail - tribalpoetry@yahoo.com

2006-07-05T01:43:00.000-07:00

today all the oratory nodded into me
are yearning to narrate their stories
the call and response form in African oral narratives
to help those of us who were shy speaking in public

it happens during prayers
it happens during ceremony
whose idea promotes group participation,
every word following gestured display

Most of the poetry collection is touching
and emotionally it shows natural nuances
or the other from the proverb recited
love in the choruses which everybody joined
including my grand mum with her loss gums

what I learned I dreamingly acted true
something we pray and sing along to
This first education I got to be a poet
good public speaker before schooling

my muse usually picks the story teller
in my local language for the week at random
a rebirth without losing touch with tradition
uh how the children love it when I recited

once I told a slave story of two children
But a critic spied and called me a racist
making gathering itself impossible
my confidence fell with names of the village chief

Do listen to your elders and to you parents I said
and told them; the village kids a tale
of some clan who refuse to listen
and how they were lost and stolen
to make a free state against their will

and I fought back with my juju poetry
knowing we must not bid bye to this art
or our children will take refuge in TV
rebirth of shyness and the idiot box

In primary school in the late 1980's
my teacher introduced story telling
but her mind was a colonized blank
learning nothing but published arts

My best moments as a child were samakaland
Something mama gives as we roasts yam
That it is what I hoped to give back
when the sung, chant, proverbs follows the art
display that transcend the communicative functions of language

how I love that scenery strengthening social cohesion
far from assuring to the status of writing art
how I love to read my own works
Urdeen tribal poetry at its best

The poet, under whatever name, always stands for the same thing—imagination. And imagination in its highest form gives him the power, as it were, of assuming the consciousness of whatever he speaks about, whether man or beast, or rock or tree,

Behind the cattle kraal

2006-05-30T07:02:00.000-07:00

Behind the cattle kraal
Against the velvet black of her skin
The moon illuminated light
A dim glow like a beacon in the night
Her breast on my palm did lay
Surprisingly heavy in such a slim figure
And the scent of opening flowers
Competed with the odor of her virgin flesh

harvest for mama

2006-05-30T06:37:00.000-07:00

For my dream…
The summer heat of the day
Was for my mother
The filthy gnat -mad field
Was for my mother
The bone-cracking labor of the woods
Was for my mother
The life of shelling corns
Was for my mother
Romping deep in decaying slims
Was for my mother
The work of the mill
Was for my mother
The weight of grains
Was for my mother
The sweat and stink of the field
Was for my mother
The cruel hiss of the whip
Was for my mother
The groan of the dying
Was for my mother
The roar of the Mississippi
Was for my mother
The burden of chains
Was for my mother
The farm of grain
Was for my mother
The stench of the field
Was for my mother
The yelling note of the overseer
Was for my mother
No never again
Will I be the slave
Because of my mother

the overture of an Esan son

2006-05-30T06:32:00.001-07:00

The shade of desire is evident
When you watch eyes following
Water pouts wetting the blouse
Of an Edo maiden in the river road

The poet in love knows these best
Lift her bodily within this script
And praise her for my manhood stance
As an outlet of mans savage quest

These poems whispered the tempters rite
At a time when sexual desire followed me
Something the bible called bloom of youth
Like anger in silence translated by the body
When the lines of arches were at their peak

11
The picture in an artistic abandons
Conditioned by the gazelle neck
On her head it swings and sway
A stance of many dances

The scenes that tasked much attention
Like the wrapper around her flank
Unpadded feet on the dust they trod
Echoes the overture of an Esan son

111

the delicate flanks shows elastic in pants
The daring eyes flaunts the police line
Such contemplation papa warned me about
Trying to restrain me with a muscular thigh

The red lip gauge fanning the flame
Like squashed roses red as wine
A pout of blood colored my mind
As a savior died for this sinner in me
Tempting me through the erotic faith

The water pot goes in and out with me
Walking by the stream or the water ways
Or by the narrow streamlet were the land
Were green or by the creek were the hills were steep
Like my shadow it traced a part of me
A life destined on the African woman

2006-05-30T06:32:00.000-07:00

a plea for SUDAN to writers

2006-05-04T05:21:00.000-07:00

Theme in a dominion of pure opposition
Horrific scenes with no chance of peace
like them my childhood involved neglect
My puberty entailed poverty disputation
My adulthood was rooted in Niger delta
with all this in mind you assumed right
It was no wonder I knew what I write
Am not in Sudan but have burnt candles
Chalks on a slate to tell of poetic treasons
By reducing them to abstractions and wiles
The yelling, the screaming, it never did cease
My vocation has turned it to self-mutilation.
In an attempt to release inner frustration
Seeking a "Sudanese Poems" and stories
Something more important that rhymes
above the mistake of looking in the mirror
ignorant if we think we could never be in that place
the CNN talk about Theme of underdevelopment
To wash their hands of the “sudden death”

Please do not turn from the grave
And from the mound beside it
The smell of damp earth and rotten matter
Calling to mind, creatures once flesh
Please do not turn from the grave
Of corpse descending on the uncaring earth
And the cemetery of mourners
Exploding over headstones
Please do not turn from the grave
From the sod beneath
Of beetles, worms and little things
Bedding with these of whom we cry

Please comment at
www.tribalpoetry.blogspot.com

Thanks
Urdeen Sylvester
Administrative officer
Bells university of technology
Ogun State
Nigeria
08052130879

2006-01-31T01:30:00.000-08:00

Hut and Skins

I have none but hut and skins
and the usual junks my people have
yet I am a king in my own realm again
within the endless plains
in my poetry lies my profiles
contentment in gutter education
carving out my manuscript
and claim my own kind tribes of men,
men fitted with strong sinew
bones larger harder like stumps
conditioned by years of conquered illness
heat from the field and dry winds
mild wandering fashion of savage old
to eat what only the rain and sun could give
clothed here in my manuscript
as I study the African literature

the pain within the poetry

2006-01-31T01:27:00.000-08:00

the savagery of a clan
acts out the scene of affront
and a "bush" man's altitude
made the president true,

the scene of battlement
found forms in a tribal mind
and a wounded world sinks
into a blank empty page.

THE AFRICAN SOUL

2006-01-31T01:25:00.000-08:00

THE AFRICAN SOUL

Afield the echoes scream,
Deep within the alluvian of the African soul
Squat and croaking in my conciousness
things about arts found only in dreams
trying to access my share
of the brotherhood questions
that pain has sought to kill

the black man curriculumn
teaching me about thyself...
nourished anew along the Niger plains
under the skin of a native beat
as I study the African literature

Since the anger within me is urgent

2006-01-31T01:22:00.000-08:00

Since the anger within me is urgent
I drove an endless terror upon my readers
Screamed out my a trumpet in dialect
Against the murderous attackers who beleaguered the city

With the battle cry into the crowd I trod
Letting the bloody tears fall down on me
A manuscript to make up the point of conflict
And in a rages to haul it away

Dragging the dead through the carnage
The corpse of these who have fallen
Coming together in bitter collision
pictured home the blooded spoils.

Echoes of the Gulf (Conscience of War)

2006-01-31T01:17:00.000-08:00

"An Arab land once a pilgrim part

A Muslim pride now a picture of ruin

Natives acting out what happened to them

Death by the hundreds blood bath in the street

Enslaved as a nation now without a crown-"

squeezing through the crowd of mourners

Trying to find an opening close to the havoc

Relatives and friends trying to restrain me

Eye telling me what I expected to see-

I resisted and they gave way as I approached

Bowing slowly backing away giving me space,

Standing over a carcass making the sign of the cross-

A mother cries out in the street looking at a son she loved

shattered arms and bodies in tartar

suicide bombers terrorist claims-

family homes looks like a funeral parlor

The dead! Yes I have seen it all before

Yes I have watched them before on TV

Burying folks em-mass like 'Rwandan genocide' attack-

Once upon a time in Africa.

Folks couldn't stop crying, hanky in all hands

In contract with the clothing, all in black

Who should it be, that brought up my kin's

Who should it be, that makes mama and papa cry-

A kin run up to me, into my open arms crying

The condolence keep pouring in wordily oration

The stench of the dead of roses and incense

Of my own apprehension setting in

As I go on and on the distance seemed everlasting

Like watching a movie in TV coming out in motion-

A widow bend nearly double with grief

Not yet thirty by the look of her

And by God! A kid straddled on her back

A baby who will never see or call papa-

I can smell an undertaker embalming fluid

He used to preserve the dead, as I walk the street

The pall bearers who brought the coffins

Looks like crows waiting for a carcass

The hundred of candles around the main

The smell of burning tallow

Killing me along with the thought of a dead-

The priest solemn alone with no alter boys

Swinging the censor around the coffin

Clouds of frankincense wafted toward us

And I like all Catholics made the sign of the cross

To a virgin whose son the Arabs hated-

And at the gulf of death here I come at least

And every form jumped right at me

There is no mistaken it

the pictures in my line of sight

The corpses look at me accusing me-

And then I woke up out of my own sweat

Back home safe and well

But the nightmare I know will continue

The spirit of the dead will always be in my conscience-

The only solitude will be to write about it

It is a writers craft to tell from art

Bringing the wounded world into our rooms

And invoke the conscience of the nations in time of war.

"Within the gulf the valley of death

Into an art so pure in truth

I wrote of what o poet saw

reenacting classic battles like on TV

A carnage so complete.

Amen to the freedom fighters

Alleluia -alleluia''

PART TWO

'here a soldier lend a voice'
With pride I enlisted with the army

Thought I was all like in the movie

With haircuts and orderliness

And a change away from civilian clothes-

Like barking dogs with human faces

They gave orders herding us like cattle

Sent to my battalion to battle a nation

Coz once a soldier you own yourself no more-

With such bitterness I thought about home

Folks uneasy about shielding a deserter

Cradled in the noise of their barking

The trail was hot in the Arab land-

Obscenely desperate for the enemy flesh

Never having enough men in my rifle sight

Into the carnage of the gulf I faced the terrorist

Rooting with terror I found they were men like me-

All limbs jittery, snout deep in water logged trench

Embraced by the squalid ramble of the battle field

A dozen or more corpses are on the anal tip of a crater

The khaki uniform stained with my own blood and urine-

Both factions, lying dead in chump and rows

Others were still screaming in horrible reality

Some without legs and arms, barely alive

All sinews ashen and splintered, shattered on the battlefield-

Yet herding the cattle, Barking at us, our leaders shouted

Go get the terrorist! Go get the terrorist!

Whiles soldiers were being blown or shot to pieces

falling like autumn fruits-

sound from iraq

2006-01-31T01:11:00.000-08:00

The thing that make me turn the television on
and skip the pages of late paper
or listen to grand dad radio when he is out
is the same thing that makes
us burn with horror at the fact
and rage against the name of what
the modern riffraff calls a call of peace

when I watch TV everyday
the news was recited
like a momma reciting litanies;
telling about the body count…

Have supposed animals in slaughter
imagining arms around me
the shout the scream
the cry the wails
the siren song
arms in arm impaled upon me
in a mating dance of death

As the world comes down upon us
I pout, I stare;
Mouth agape at a coverage so clear
Antiseptic likes the nurse uniform
in respect of modern technology
telling me news in black and white.

First a little puff of smoke
told us a faction have scored a point
grandma denture flying out
like a rocket screaming hisssss
at the most vivid enactment
re creating classic battles
in the smoky hut it comes blaring
we found ourselves in the Arab land.

and here granny lead her voice to mine
and
I saw the lightening
and that na the gun
and then I hear the 'thunder' come
and that na the big gun
and them I come hear
the rain day fall,
and that na the drop of blood day fall
and when I go farm to gather our crops
na dead men I go gather'

I feeling the way things be
As I ask myself what be this?

who tell you say
I never hear the scream of realities
because me no they for dear
who tell you say
me never feeling the fate and horror
of a carnage way so complete
for our fine television

standing still eyes on the screen
in that moment we be the same
the wounded world right
in my in my granny hut

I was there inside an open skull
I was there inside a broken skin
I was there inside all drops of blood
I was there in the air with the paratroops
I was there falling down with the bombs
I was there inside the chaos of this century
I was there and I am here in the Smoky hut

I have lent out a voice among the location mob and drunks
I have lent out a voice among the intellectuals
But in the 'bush' the villagers though the Yankee was right
going at em the way James bones does
With all the fancy stuff shown on TV
To make it seems right

today the first causality were
the local dreamer dreaming
then suddenly sirens started screaming
the hospital were full to draining
on houses with no window left to smash
were rooms stank of gases and broken drain
in completion of roasted human meat.

The sound the color
To still the subtle fear
Made worse when the death were justified as right
But the joke was even funnier
Out of the valley of death
repeat a startling vision.

The thought of so much death
The more there is the less it mean
Though object find reflection in the eye
the mind alone knew what lies beyond

when a dwell is started
it is of a simple rule 'to win'
it cares not for the families it devastates
not you or me

at the onset both factions has the conviction
that they stand on the right side
willing to die and fight for a course justified to be right

but let us stick to the fact
can there be peace when peace means broken bones
can there?

With the tears at the corner of my eye
my body heard before I really did
the value I thought life posses
walking down the track of troop and saints,
runs down the street in stream of blood
hearing a mother crying for a son she loves
as terrorist claim them in the name of peace

Well
is there peace today
answer me
no there is no peace and there will never be
the donkey still wired with explosives
the fanatic Tommy is full of bombs
above the birds still screams laying down their eggs in flight
splintered knees and broken arms
marked the stable once that left home.

urdeen all rights reserved 2004

2006-01-31T01:07:00.000-08:00

INTRODUCTION: an Ode to the freedom fighters

In you the caravan trod

In line with the merchant chants-

'Bound in a sheaf of dreams

A black man in a nigger suit

Here at your view

In you the wagon trails

Across the forgotten part-

'Standing in a pulpit

A rambling preacher

downed with a bullet'

in you I smelled my odor

from the stench of the hold-

'the sound of a captive voice

echoes our shackled fear

across the shadeless grass

in you sisterhood awakes again

the voice of a kitchen mammy-

'the rich laughter of a Negro maiden

in a song our fathers sang

taking us home again

Somewhere I heard a Negro cry

2006-01-18T05:07:00.000-08:00

Somewhere I heard a Negro cry

Of talk buried deep in dreams

The words more ours came back to me

Savage lines against my memory

Black hands and feet and faces

The act of nigger past

My pen; responding to the fury in my mind

Like a blade of grass bending to the wind

My language was theirs

Their pain was mine

I spoke as if it was a second tongue

My rage has captured my poems utterly

As I write the pencil inflict deep sore

Wounded I edit

Gnawing away at these foreign

Vocabularies to make the manic real

and let the spirit live-
---------------------------------
The more truth we seek
The more confused we are
Coz we are ashamed 2 see
The truth of our past

Are we free from shackles 2 day?
No not at all
Though there is no chain today
We are but still a slave

the beauty of Orature

2006-01-18T02:14:00.000-08:00

Whenever I go to the tribe during festivities, I often had to prepare some meals and invite the kindred poor to come and have a feast, we could gather around the wood stove in our compound and I would make them happy by telling them stories I learned from my childhood, the elder of family and kinfolks would listen carefully and at times adds comment if unintentionally I misquote a proverb,

I try to recreate the scenery around the hearths as it was in the past, to sit around fires to poke and smell the sting of the rising smoke, to see myself as the great story-teller in the age of gold as I take the wide eyed kids thousands of miles back into the memory lane of the child I was.

Now I write imaginatively from the oral culture, most from my own story telling. And my first book” music of the mind” a collection of poetry; tells of my journey and the beauty I discovered as I try to continue the priceless vocation of a habitual story teller..

today when I think of an African story I once had the privilege to listen to, a story of how the sky used to touch the earth and how an old lady used to wipe her hands on the moon after each meal and how the sky eventually got angry and moved away from the old lady. I now think of another meaning behind these words, I see myself as that old lady, asking the sky for forgiveness, trying to bring the “moonlight tales” closer to the earth.

I have a reason why I do what I do, recreating details as it was true to life, because I believe that story telling is a simple and wonderful way to act out our imaginations, the art helps the mind grow and learn to create. is a way to let the children use their imaginations and help the them build up their communication skill as it has done to this author,

growing up in the village, as a child I looked forward nightly to the story times that took place at of our multipart, my favorite stories were the sing along ones, call and response form. My grandfather would quote a proverb and would summon us to finish it.

in this method the art entails a caller or lead singer who “raises the song” of the story and the community chorus will respond, or “agree underneath the song.”
But in stories, the storyteller “calls” out the story in lines; and the audience “responds” at regular intervals

Granny: Once upon a time
Children: Time, time
Granny: Many, many moons ago
Children: Mmmmh

Each story or song had a lesson to be learnt from within, as I grew the lessons strengthened me, my writings today is conditioned by the childhood scenery, these riches of the story telling culture are quite evident to me and very beautiful

Today there may be no fires to sit around in most rural settings as it was in the past, because the world is not as safe as it was, but story telling lives on, and as I sit in my verandah looking at the moon at night my mind goes back home, memories closeting on the charcoal fire, the smells of either ground-nuts toasting or yam roasting recalls the beauty of the art of the stories that developed my curiosity towards the bits and pieces around me and taught me the importance of my lineage

I to write about the beauty of this gift, to share my culture and to contribute the little I can in preserving the art, at times I use illustration from the western stories that are written down and illustrated in books, because I want to make the modern writer know that he doesn’t need to go back to the past to recreate the art of “ orature”. They are available within reach,

an example of one story I loved to give the kid by oration is the latest bestseller novel “Harry Potter” a lot of these stories are based on village lifestyles that are quiet familiar to those of us brought up in rural setting,

to make folk understand what I intended for them to see, I tried my best so the fable stories are narrated in such a way using the lingering dialect of our village, that both the old and young are glued to my narratives as I do in my excitement as a kid whenever I heard an elder tell a story

Great African writers have often done what I do, writers like Chinua Achebe often introduce into literature, stories from their culture’s oral traditions and the meaning of the proverbs printed in his dialect, song-tales, myths, folktales, fairy tales, animal fables, One example is this proverb-song given in untranslated Igbo in Achebe's Things Fall Apart, Ch. 7, p. 42:

because they too are conditioned by their culture.

ON THE POETRY

During my childhood, I used to listen to my grandmother reciting to us the poetry of mythology and legends of our ancestral tradition, listening to her made me a humble and a respectful child, it is a brilliant way of coping with problems; “she once said to me” I sing it when I walk alone to the stream, fears would be lost when we recite poetry of hope. She continued. Today I agree with her

One of the beautiful things about poetry is that you can actually use it to heal your own emotion and to teach the world a thing or two about the basics of your society, for example like learning names and their meaning, the dialect and belief as you see it

Literature among the African is in actual fact spoken and poetic, 'a verbal art so pure and so complete.” touching, and emotional, the arts examines the black experience as reflected in the drama of Africans. I love the choruses which everybody including my grandma sang along to. The call and response form help those of us who were shy speaking in public because it afforded us the opportunity to overcome our shyness and also helped in boosting our confidence. This in a way is the first education I got to be a good in speaking publicly

It is very important to tell stories to children through this method. Apart from being exciting poetry helps them in many ways: to build up their listening skills, to become effective communicators with the use of their dialect, to appreciate the society in which they live, to bridge a gap between their generation and past generations, to understand their roots and to become more creative in what they do.

ON SLAVERY TODAY

2005-12-01T20:52:00.000-08:00

Forced labor in NIgeria.

I watched them coming toward me, mouth jerking as in worked by wires,
eyes open with beggarliness, arms stretching in violent outreaching,
eye milky drawing on me, killing me with my thoughts.

My country, Nigeria with every scenery to show for her ordeal.
The view of trafficked children working on the streets, children not
yet in their teens, hawking along the busy road, how many have met
their death? How many have been exploited and abused and used?

I read about them in the foreign media, and I wondered why not in my
own country are there publications on the subject? Yet I read on the
BBC web site that Unicef estimates that human trafficking is the
most lucrative trade in West Africa. Why? This discovery will shock
you when you realize the support that human trafficking enjoys at
almost every level of the Nigerian society, and more shocking is the
fact that the trafficked children were rented out with the
collaboration of the victims' own immediate families, Many of the
victims are too young to understand their rights or are illegally
recruited from the north or the poorer village tribes by individuals;
forced to work as hired hands and forced to work against their will,

What does a house help mean? What is the hidden meaning behind the
words, what does "a slave", mean, is there any difference
between the
two, and maybe we are ignorant of these terms but are we really? Are
we really ignorant about our past, is the government blind to the
plight of these children being taken into 'slavery' or when their
immediate parents, aunts and uncles were being tricked into taking a
loan, a loan that may tie them into the bondage of slavery forever
children work in exploitative and/or dangerous conditions.

According to the United Nations census (Unicef ) there are no fewer
that 15 million children working in exploitative labor in Nigeria,
but they are wrong, as an African and a traveling nomad I can paint a
bigger picture of the "21st century slave trade."

I had my first intimate sexual encounter when I was but seven years
old with a house help not yet in her teens. Children not yet in their
teens are forced to learn about sex or to work in the sex industry.

As the writer in me grows, so does the knowledge grow that this
trade will continue and as it continues , it will continue to use new
terms even though it is illegal under international law.
Trafficking is the fastest growing form of slavery in the third world
nation today, yet protection for the victims of this crime is never
there........
Tribal 2004

poetic passage

2005-12-01T20:50:00.000-08:00

In the morning when men still longs for their women, I start out at twilight, before all nature awoke, and as the clouds in its blanket of blues hangs over my head I heard a pheasant jazz across the field.

The trees stands out like accusers, the weeds seems to bow as I walk by, the wind have its own voice, applauded by the clapping leaves, I felt the chill from the contact as low branches along the narrow parts merge flesh against nature green

It is what I like about my works, the poetry I write, and of fiction I composed, of our ancestors and of nature, to be first along this ancient path, with my pad and pen, the spirit still lives in my works

And while the shadows stand watching
I seek the sculptured speeches
The dialect of old in terrace work
In time to put it to the proof

“Each section seems to welcome me, drawing on me dictating my thoughts, and I remembered the feeling, like a pioneer, the feeling of possession, my mind telling me, this is mine, all of nature is in me

Moving through the familiar parts, this scenery was my story book, something in its peacefulness calls me inward, the beauty of nature in the scent of our lineage, these things are special to me, like nothing else in my life ever will

This happiness is rampaging through me when ever I set sight on a topic of interest; an ancient tree, a lost artifact, of mud swing and the trill of discovering new things,

In my line of sight nature works with my state of mind, imagine the valley adjacent to my tribe as a slave pit, or the yam tendril entwining a woman to me in my dreams, as of now I thought of Ken and the Ogoni Eight

And suddenly crawling groping grapping, Arms of branches reaching to strangle the words out of me, Nature Unguarded utterance that may lead them to prints keeping watch over my steps, The roaring pathos Shrill loud and trembling, Pictured the bleak interior of a slave passage, Stealing into my heart taking notes of all that I do In poetry form, Seeking reason to deny my fear

The pain communicated through flesh
The clacking of separation
The slithering of movement
The pumping in my ear and vein
And I was fighting as the rope burned into my neck
Searing like fire
And something gave as the areole of the lung inflated
The unheard music in a captive cage

The rope were tight playing the song and were the Ogoni song, the air spoke the words, and was the Ogoni words, thought out words in rain of memory falling down healing hurts over the Ogoni land

The pen groped the pregnant air with blindfold I try to see the flesh left behind on the path as whole selves were briefly recalled with the shock wave of sudden death

Yet the yearning of my hearts beat on the path and old tree stir trying to speak of an Ogoni hanging on its branch, and the selves roared in me, blasting me with these grammars, the cords were still on my throat hanging me with the Sosa boys

In my pad the eight lifted each other up in prints that wordlessly wail as soul that rose out of flesh went over the shell-shocked oil well

Tangled in prison clothing In my poems you will hear an Ogoni cry as the ripped flesh exposes the desperation with the same Rotten English

From nature I listened to the music and I write about it, scene my mind knew note by note the words more our came back to me black hands feet and faces Igbo, Hausa, Edo and all ethnic grammar with the pulse and softness of it

Like a blade of grass bending to the wind, along the field my pen responded to the fury in my mind my writing were not mine, I was the Ogoni, the Ogoni and all minority were all me, and the spirit lives

Red Bird

2005-09-27T13:01:00.000-07:00

Red bird piping from the wood…
eye agape
passers by stare
locked in arms
I cross your view
A lonely poet and a kindred poor.

BYPASS

2005-09-12T05:49:00.000-07:00

The dancers perfect their art
And the scars tells the story
That is the instinct of the society
With over a hundred ethnic race
The trouble with such bypass
Found also with the cloth tradition
And the cultural association with the marks
Is that the man is methodologically living
Through the past history of “papa”
A common feature found in the observation
There is the inheritance of fierceness
And we all witness the division of a nation
Linked with the same theory we have studied

suffering in plain sight

2005-08-14T11:26:00.000-07:00

The shames I see accept a mother’s breast
a child I hold tried to squeeze an ounce of milk
and a taste of my own fear falling on my lip
the anguished act of torment swelled up tears

because it is my uselessness that provided legal justification
because it was the shame that attracted the press
like the hordes of flies feasting on a dying child
on us the scenes… the focus of a staged representing

I laugh to think of it, I laugh to think of you
To think of what the brotherhood in America could think
Huddled in typical nigger fashion the roots to deride
Looking at the Sudanese suffering in plain sight
I too could have thanked God for the slave merchants