POEM: Echoes in a Dying Head - In memory of Ken Saro-Wiwa

In 2005, I set out to write poems for individuals who mean a lot in my life. At the time, I had heard of Ken Saro-Wiwa and even with little knowledge of his works and deeds, I set out to write a poem about this man. This week I am read a book written by him titled A Month and a Day & Letters. It is funny how much of what I captured fits in. I am sharing this one with you to celebrate this man who gave his life and also all individuals who fight against injustice everywhere and who are persecuted for doing so.

(Only the weak fight with Guns)

EVENING (DARKNESS)

Between the cockroach and the cock

all disputes are settled with a peck.

You eat the gods’ sacrifice

and you owe them twice:

no crow to bring you kernels

no stone to crack them;

The pigeons’ pinions are wet

Their legs tied to their nests.

Pocket torn

Stomach churning

Maize farms yielding swallows

Thieves singing praises for their daily bread

They sow not, reap the lot

My eyes are dry

…cries high

I see a light

it shines not from the sun

I know not the time

The place?

Neither!

Keep pace with me

Know my face

Erase every trace of this message

            From your conscience

            From your system

            From your soul

                        …transient images

                            in a whirling thought;         

I did no wrong

They said,

I am a threat

Sudden lights…callous slaps

Syringes…screams

Sirens…commotions

Ambulance…imbalance

Metal doors…padlocks

Darkness…dungeons

Unconsciousness

Lost

…found

Seeking internal peace

crush

DAWN (DARKNESS)

A priest…a patriot

…a threat perhaps

Depends on who’s asking;

Thousand five hundred years

First logical payment

How many times have virtues not lost?

Stomach whining

Pocket torn

Rodents snuggling in the arms of the cassava farm

Pots of maize ready to trap their fruiting greed

They sow not, reap the lot.

The pregnant ceiling

to deliver its conception

unto my torrid throat.

My blanket is sodden

My warmth is trodden

in turns in the dreary den;

Heard it through the wind

Her tears tortured my heart

Her cries torched my mind.

I did no wrong

They said,

I am a threat

Courtrooms…paid attorneys

Ignorant jury…false witnesses

Greased judges…strange charges

Guilty verdict…Death Sentence:

A threat to the fattening apes

A havoc wrecker

Just try and uncover a bin of sin

especially if the can of worms

is lodged firmly in the fish’s head.

MORNING (DARKNESS)

Are my people still dying?

Hmm…better be quiet

Today they have my pen

Tomorrow my tongue

or mercifully still my mind;

Who said the pen is mightier?

What if you’re an imbecile?

…or even a dumb amelia?

Or a frog against the cobra?

But Galileo Galilee died

and Socrates

and Christ;

After all what is a mosquito

on a dead man’s toe?

Pocket torn

Stomach turning

I only asked why

when I should’ve applauded

and be a quiet celebrant

of Ananias’ wealth—

partaker of the sold lands;

I asked why

when I could’ve said:

“Wow! What a beauty”

when I could’ve hitchhiked

to our village’s junction

walk the rest of the million miles

swim the remaining thousand with smiles

to my tribesmen

and say to them

with the pride

of a dying cockroach:

“I saw it first.”

But foolishly I asked why!

I did no wrong

They said

I am a threat

Courtrooms…journalists

Flashes…pictures

Noise…guards

The traitor…the Devil

The thief…the headlines:

            SENTENCED…SHAME…NON-PATRIOTIC

            GUILTY…EGOISTIC…NATION-WRECKER

                                                innocent

A havoc wrecker

A threat to the milk cows

An anomaly to be corrected

A disease to be cured

A stain to be cleaned

A parasite to be pruned.

AFTERNOON (DARKNESS)

I can’t shut up!

It would tantamount to betrayal

I would be the loser;

It is not for nothing that the roach

puts up a fight against the nursing hen

The clouds are getting darker

Death is imminent

I won’t surrender

No!

Not ever!

Stomach thundering

Pocket torn

I only saw barrels of our boiling blood

Being exchanged for fleets of Royce

Besides there are no roads to our village

and no bridges over the river

so I asked why?

A simple, harmless, monosyllabic ‘why’!

I did no wrong

They said,

I am a threat

Then…

Green uniforms…thick phalanx

Mob attack…numerous slaps

Blood…tears

Sweat…phlegm

Spittle…water

Darkness…unconsciousness

So I know

Never ask

when it’s clear

DUSK (DARKNESS)

The second payment

Bullets buried in the heart

I would want nothing

to be engraved on the tombstone

of your minds…the cove of gory remnants

(Though I would have none

In the hearts of the wicked and the weak)

but my deeds and your needs;

None to weep! Lest we die;

Tell Papa

not to weep but to ask them why

the road to our village is still not there

nor the bridge over the river

though they’ve slaughtered

his only son on the penal altar;

Tell Papa to tell them

that our children still crack nuts

under the seasonless almond tree

They still die young of nothing

            but empty stomachs filled with stones

They should tell them…

That though a bird flies in the air

it feeds from the ground

where its feathers fall after death;

That the benevolent gods of our land

are counting the days

hovering in their breaths…

the clay

left in their bones, their blood, their bodies;

That never is it absolute or final

the triumph of the wicked;

That soon, always soon, truth

like the seedling of the Odum tree

            The smell of wine

            The air we breathe…

overcomes falsehood

            As

Good overcomes Evil;

That what Evil fears most

is the resolve of the weak

and ours is the sea,

            The heavens

            The village’s gods

            Our hearts…its needs

            Our lives…its soul

            Our unshakable will to succeed:

our resolve is them.

Another would come after me

who has been enlivened

to ask why

from…

Zion

to…

Bylon

till…

            they’re no more.

                                                            Copyright Ó 14^th October MMV by Fredua-Agyeman Nana