Category: Literature

Who Made You A judge?

Who Made You A judge?

1ˈdʒʌŋɡəl/ /ˈdʒʌs.tɪs/

That was what my dictionary
woke up to show me this morning,
Who made you one of this angels?
One is called /ˈdʒʌŋɡəl/ jungle and the other is called /ˈdʒʌs.tɪs/ justice like a league of legend ants feasting on a lonely trapped Carcass and Vargas.
Who made you a judge over criminals?

Light opens…

Our stories are gory to the ear,
If I decide to write them now
I fear my sight will become blurry
with tinted tears of mourning.
Mount your camera on a tripod,
Double your steps and hands
We have a story to make to the world.
Yells of vengeance has torn my belly!

Light fades…

Yesterday,
The first sight I beheld in the morning
Was a boy trying to free himself from
Gullible mobs in the street of Lagos.
Tears flooded his eyes as he pleaded,
His name became a political lyrics,
Lyrically, he was branded with metals;
Metals that took away his miserable life.

Light fades…

His body became a shadow finding home, running, walking and jumping.
He burnt into ashes as they lynched him
The petrol broke apart and tyre belched
Another soul roamed among the living
Inviting the eclipse sun in the noon.
His beauty washed away by the restless grief that held his bones together to bind

Light fades…

Capture the ghost of that girl running!
She was knocked down this morning
by a drunk driver finding ways to die
Capture her spirit and let’s edit them all
The mobs Wont see how she died but they will linger to kill without thinking,
Who made them a judge by the way?
Remember, don’t leave the ghost tears.

Light fades…

Now, follow that soul seated there?
She was one of the victims of Evan.
Have you seen her tears turned red?
Cut away of her legs must be filmed,
Clean up her face with your focus!
We’re like the castaway treated like a plague, the house whose door has been stolen and we never knew until now!

Light fades…

What is your time?
we have Chelsea march by ten &
this deads may find home in the
air for the living to see how Arsenal
will be defeated in stampford to night
Tilt the camera up & see God’ eyes
He watches from above about this
And he spoke not of it, then, who
made us a judge over all this crimes?

Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent

Cattle Colony

Cattle Colony

we’ve counted all the cattles
those going to South and West
those to the East and Middlebelt
our ancestral souls still beat
patriotically among the wind.
they have built a nervous town
full of smiling land scape of
grasses and water and blood
I think our herdsmen will wear
a political shoes and clothes now
and stop killing heads for 2019!

Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent

Ghetto Poet

Ghetto Poet

the street taught me how to name myself ,
how to make life miserable to people with arms and weapons around my neck and hands.
how to call a knife a spade and
a spade; a hoe without feeling guilty.
how to lay wait for girls and make
them scream out loud in dark places
where men fall in and come out
happily satisfied.
the street taught me how to pronounce these words: Bread and water.
I was born without nipple to my mouth,
my mother became religionist making temples her home.
My father, whose shadows I fell under reek of bottles of beers and found satisfaction from the twisted public holes of skimpy sluts.
The street made me, I am part of the street; a ghetto poet, ghettoising.
life pushed me into the den of wildness
there was time I visited hope and hope failed me yet the end didn’t come.
I whimpered, but life must go on.
You know these words are broken,
I lost my soul scribbling them on slates
I picked every word I say from the ghetto.
I won’t stop this game, forgive me like
I forgave myself when I sliced a knife
into a Bishop’s throat,
like when I shot a wealthy man at Nnewi
like when I set the church ablaze for treating me like a Lepal at restitution.
like when I slaughtered an Imam for a false doctrine.
Just forgive me ’cause of this ghetto sermon playing in my head.
I was made the black sheep by broken marriage
I do not know when the world begin to trade a boy like me for bloody adventures!
they made beast from baby like me,
when was it signed into our constitutions to overlook dregs of the society- children in the street?
how do you hold your bodies together
knowing you’ve held a future in your tongue, your arms and weapons?
begone! There is no point being who I am…
Don’t leave me to perish! I need a shoulder to lean on!

Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent

Fugitive

Fugitive

I am learning how to leave
how to hug many lonely roads
walk through the roads in pains
how to mourn those lost brothers
without feeling guilty-wandering
this is what life has taught me:
how to pack my bag and walk,
walk to the river bank and stay
I’ve been forgotten in between
fingers, two unequal fingers
i know I am a street shattered,
littered with filth agonies.
finding home in a graveyard
finding solace in the bosom of
emptiness and foilage of vacant
lonesomeness taught me this:
how to name the street a home
how to hold death in my pocket
how to talk to the wind as a friend
building sadness and excitement
when a dice of stupidity is thrown
fools like me look for gold of sanity
these broken poems in my head
hurts, wish I could split them like
Igbos’ hearts, like Edo and Delta!
the history created has made me
learn more on how to lose home
in every moon, in every star
but am afraid of what the streets
talk about me in their closet.

Yours Poetically
©John Chizoba Vincent

Men Cry Too

Men Cry Too

Your late mother
told you “men don’t cry”
stack by stack
you carved it into soul
you allowed it rule you
deeper and deeper.

you bottled up like a ghost
against the thaw life belched
on you to bear not to complain
only if you understand this
logic … “Men do cry too”

Childhood illusion: men don’t cry
Peer’s fable: boys don’t cry
-Men do cry also
Wells of water do fall from
their cheeks.
They face troubles also
They face rejections and heartbreak
like you.

They seek for shoulders to
lean on every night
and pour out their souls
Into the dark loneliness because
They feared to be called cowards

When tossed here and there by life, boy
Cry out for a hand
Don’t be stuck in between
Call out!
There is always a vacant shoulder to
lean on.

Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent

Poets Are Paupers

Poets Are Paupers

Mother told a story yesterday
of how poets die in black penury
she said I won’t be a pretty poet
as my dreams dance on my ink
“Poets are mirror of deceit and pain
craving beyond the debris of life
over my dead body will you be one!”
she pulled down the heaven on me!

a woman is a country of many colours
the hearts of men are far country
we are all students of life, learning
even the masquerade has a date,
a date to join their ancestors beyond
hold your tongue to your bosom
fate knows whose palm wealth will
be planted sooner or later by nature.

You will be raped by darned darkness
fed by junks of insanity lurking by…
a teary gland shall emerge, right in
the bosom of your myopic despair shall you live by your sorrow like an oiled orchestral stammerer down the street
father raged holding my LLB firmly
like pixels collection from a twisted camera abandoned by a loner.

writers are mirrors connected to reflect
this world filled with broken stanzas
if my fears are not for my brothers and
my sisters and for Nigerians chains…
I will leave my hope dashed in the air
tilt this morning with the eyes of the night, we will dice this moon for hand
on the paupers animated series of life.

Aduke birthed venoms last year for you
Chioma made your tears red images
words are like Sunbeams, the more they are condensed the deeper they burn!demise of a poet, no one seem to notice
in your domain,you don’t expect praises
if a kingdom falls,there are several others to replace it while you rot calmly.

Poetry pays but its a business of the Elites, a trade not meant for children!
Shakespeare name is still carved on the
body of the sky, his head still seen today.
what is penny without a route in life?
Poets are pauper to their testy tongue!
Father, leave me to my dreams to perish alone, even if evil calls for good, I will stand as one poet and always will.

let the traces of a saint be kept in peace
let the shining armor of a poet glitter
becoming another star is not a sacrilege
Poets are not broken and shattered dust
this musing muse is only our spirits;
a spiritual elixirs to the clay world
we are crops, the worldcover, ladders
let the ways of poets be kept, we are not paupers on the street begging for meat.

Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent

PYTHON DANCE BY JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT 

PYTHON DANCE BY JOHN CHIZOBA VINCENT 

after Odumegwu Ojukwu

after Chinua Achebe
after Christopher Okigbo
after Dele Giwa
after Kofi Awoonor
after Kwame Nkrumah
after Ngugi Wa Thiong’o
after Nelson Mandela
after Wole Soyinka
after Leopold Senghor
after Flora Nwapa

I am part of this ancestry black struggle
For Africa to be reckoned in the world
not of ancient historical context of backwardness but of productivity
I wasn’t part of the python dance
taken to the East against the voiceless.

Our ancestral souls still beat louder
The shrines of our forefathers are not destroyed by palms of westernisation
We still have men of understanding
Men whose hands are legs of fire
We’ve told the boys that no youth returns to early grave again, never!

This fashion of corruption is gone
Every darkman rules for others to rule.
No politician shall ride on a state car
Whilst many travels on a trapped
roads.Our python dance shall be for restructuring of Africa heritages
not for killing our own blood for fun.

This we pledged drinking from one cup
Gathering firewood that would take us throughout the wet season of this storm
Africa is our home and our hearts to
protect and guide from purple aliens
no more python dance to kill our own.

Solitude by John Chizoba Vincent

Solitude by John Chizoba Vincent

These cascaded tears are black in complexion,
I started arranging them when I was fourteen.
These broken stars are the horizons of fear,
I started numbering them when I was ten.
These words were the scars seen
in the smile of my mother after my father left,
I started counting them when I was
only six.
Mother left at a tender age leaving me in the hands of the wind.
Father was killed at the battlefield,
I held my fate myself and they fell like pack of sands yesterday.
Tomorrow is the spaces between my fingers,
Today is the map of gory miseries that has come,
I learnt the act of singing lullaby at the sight of walls of emptiness – Solitude.
How did we become pains in the eyes
loving like the hungry wolves in the jungle?

Those that know me knew where to find me at the river bank,
by the dark corner of a dark room, remembering the torture of yesterday,
remembering a hole created inside me,
remembering a piece of meat left in the mouth of the lion for me to pick.
when night call, I shivered and cried for another illusion to be created,
when it is dawn, cursed blessings come to play;
I carry ghost of darkness in my right pocket,
I carry death in my left pocket,
I carry him out, talk to him fiercely;
“when are you coming for me? ”
I have learnt to leave my body like a shadow when pained to roam about,
For those who have answers to natures call,
I have learnt to sip silence from the rhythm of their heart beat.

Kiss and touch these pains, they are made from days of lonesomeness.
riding from the skin of the sky to find home,
like a lost elegy, like a lost dirge,
like a child searching for a home…
I am a lone man jagged and clinkered,
I am a lone fox and a magma lion,
I’ve been broken twice, once and forever,
The probability of me getting ramshackle by the shackles of desperation is tabled on the fracture of fins.
I am a lone man!
I am a lone man
Soaked in sullied nipples of anger!!
I am a vain man
Lowered by low esteem
I am a forgotten song of imperfection
for i wallowed idly in the darkness of my thoughts alone.
walking and watching my shadow angry…
talking and counting the steps of my lips
I attuned to the simpering ruse of zephyr when cascades of questions saunter the streets of my mind.

I am a lone man!
I am a man riggered by life choices
harrowed my limp soul like the incised opium’s root
Solitude is the name of my enemy here,
A sliced silence in the morning of my heart is an aching uncle of my household.
Hold your fears to your fingers
I will not bridge this game again
From this dice thrown, death drew nearer,
Till we start learning how to spell the lyrics of father’s dirge, solitude will always rule us all.

And Libya Saw Our Weaknesses

And Libya Saw Our Weaknesses

and my CNN opened on a breaking news on a dark street in Libya, about Nigerians chained to be sold as slaves.
the television slide and roved over,
their tears shattered and their blood spoke of pains on the blazing ground.
the newscaster hid her face,
the screen went on chaos,
the remote ceased as their tears quaked the entire earth.
from people’ basket of wailing, my heart shrieked and three cities were built:
graveyard, hell and death.
This was the totality of manslaughter,
a trade made by Africans against Africans.
they made their souls like an old nest,
torturing their brothers as if night and day are not the same to a blind man.
another ship has capsized in my body and my eyes is yet to find fins.
I have to die for these men!

I will hold down Libya for this blood!
I will decorate their cities with skulls and cracking cackling ghosts.
I will spread black demons on their grounded farmland.
I will break the bones of your infants,
Make their youths desolate to the world.
I will curse their old men and women,
Their rivers shall be blood like Egypt.
Not in this season will my brothers wail like this and my government is silent!
Libya! Libya!! When I shall start my dirge, your home shall be my starting point.
I have written my national diplomacy,
the world has seen my woes howled,
I have consulted the embassies of the UN
remember, butter is not made for monkeys!
when those blood shall start singing an elegy, none of your ears shall stand.
the last time I visited Libyan cemetery,
Nigerian dusts was what I saw.
if you see my mother looking out for me through the window, tell her I have gone to Libya for my countrymen.

I am not a streamline to be wasted,
I will like to see if there are survivors,
I will like to see my people even their dust because I will take them back home
If my government is silent, i won’t be!
these are men that have children,
these are women that need husbands,
these are youths, our pride, to run our memories, to sip our memories, to occupy those bed back home.
Libya! Libya! Where are my seeds seized on your border of sin and destruction?
leave me to a piano, I will play a note of your cruelty and music of sadness!
Bite your own tongue and see how painful it is to engage in a war.
and these weaknesses of my people you won’t see in me, I shall stand like Okonkwo to kill and make life to those who wants to live!
I will anoint your head with sore palmwine that forsake fermentation.
those blood you wasted are the sap of ancestral trees.

till then, if see my father looking out for me, tell him that I have Libya on my palms, our weaknesses they saw yesterday is not cowardice but strategies and passport to reach the world.
it is a martyrdom, making me to wax stronger.
we walk our sagging lips
through a street of walls and emptiness
we hold our hopes and they fall like sands creating cascaded dreams like a rainbow in the sky.
Nigeria is blood not water!

Your Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent

Darkness

Darkness

They lifted the dirge in accordance,
The earth broke in pieces with a callous elegy. Illusion followed in their fellowship.
And death brought the woman to her kneels, she wailed and wailed cracking the walls of the sky.
God created forgetfulness because of labour pains!
Because of the void in darkness,
Because of the many tales in darkness,
Because of your tears in darkness,
When do men start to feed curses as blessings?
How do they learn to hold their bodies together without holding the future in their tongues?
Men are bodies of darkness,
men are shadows of darkness,
men are souls of darkness;
Men were created in the darkness and that makes them dark at heart.
The sun unmasked the night as it stood in tears of what the dwarf cowardice has done to humanity.
The grasses were like sheep,
The clergy men’ scars drawn more chapters in the pages of jolted notes.
They’ve made darkness their companion,
They have hidden their faces in the belly of the night committing atrocities to the naked bodies of the earth.
When you get to the pit where parables are told, tell Satan that humans are tamed like goats.
Tell him that humans need more torture to be wild and weired.
A baseless battle baked this darkness that left men in the court of evil.
You see, I don’t know many things as a poet because, my eyes is full of dark colours; black. Red. Fire. Fear. Calamities. Sadness. Agony. Pains.
And more.
When you cut open the belly of my poems, you will see darkness burying themselves in mass funeral because men made it to be so.

Yours Poetically,
©John Chizoba Vincent