Abiku

In vain your bangles cast Charmed circles at my feet; I am Abiku, calling for the first And the repeated time.   Must I weep for goats and cowries For palm oil and the sprinkled ash? Yams do not sprout in amulets To earth Abiku's limbs.   So when the snail is burnt in his shell Whet the heated fragments, brand me Deeply on the breast. You must know him When Abiku calls again.   I am the squirrel teeth, cracked The riddle of the palm. Remember This, and dig me deeper still into The god's swollen foot.   Once and the repeated time, ageless Though I puke. And when you pour Libations, each finger points me near The way I came, where   The ground is wet with mourning White dew suckles flesh-birds Evening befriends the spider, trapping Flies in wind-froth;   Night, and Abiku sucks the oil From lamps. Mother! I'll be the Supplicant snake coiled on the doorstep Yours the killing cry.   The ripes fruit was saddest; Where I crept, the warmth was cloying. In the silence of webs, Abiku moans, shaping Mounds from the yolk.            By: Wole Soyinka

Season

Rust is ripeness, rust. And the wilted corn-plume. Pollen is mating-time when swallows weave a dance. Of feathered arrows Thread corn-stalks in winged Streaks of light. And we loved to hear Spliced phrases of the wind, to hear Rasps in the field, where corn-leaves pierce like bamboo slivers. Now, garnerers we, Awaiting rust on tassels, draw Long shadows from the dusk, wreathe The thatch in wood-smoke. Laden stalks Ride the germ's decay-we await The promise of the rust. By: WOLE SOYINKA

The Call of the River Nun

I hear your call! I hear it far away; I hear it break the circle of these crouching hills. I want to view your face again and feel your cold embrace; or at your brim to set myself and inhale your breath; or like the trees, to watch my mirrored self unfold and span my days with song from the lips of dawn. I hear your lapping call! I hear it coming through; invoking the ghost of a child listening, where river birds hail your silver-surfaced flow. My river's calling too! Its ceaseless flow impels my found'ring canoe down its inevitable course. And each dying year brings near the sea-bird call, the final call that stills the crested waves and breaks in two the curtain of silence of my upturned canoe. O incomprehensible God! Shall my pilot be my inborn stars to that final call to Thee. O my river's complex course? By Gabriel Okara

The Mesh
	We have come to the cross-roads And I must either leave or come with you. I lingered over the choice But in the darkness of my doubts You lifted the lamp of love And I saw in your face The road that I should take. By: Kwesi Brew

We Have Come Home

We have come home From the bloodless wars With sunken hearts Our booths full of pride- From the true massacre of the soul When we have asked ‘What does it cost To be loved and left alone’   We have come home Bringing the pledge Which is written in rainbow colours Across the sky-for burial But is not the time To lay wreaths For yesterday’s crimes, Night threatens Time dissolves And there is no acquaintance With tomorrow   The gurgling drums Echo the stars The forest howls And between the trees The dark sun appears.   We have come home When the dawn falters Singing songs of other lands The death march Violating our ears Knowing all our loves and tears Determined by the spinning coin   We have come home To the green foothills To drink from the cup Of warm and mellow birdsong ‘To the hot beaches Where the boats go out to sea Threshing the ocean’s harvest And the hovering, plunging Gliding gulls shower kisses on the waves   We have come home Where through the lighting flash And the thundering rain The famine the drought, The sudden spirit Lingers on the road Supporting the tortured remnants             of the flesh That spirit which asks no favour             of the world But to have dignity.   By: Lenrie Peters

The Renegade

My brother you flash your teeth in response to every      hyprocrisy My brother with gold-rimmed glasses You give your master a blue-eyed faithful look My poor brother in immaculate evening dress Screaming and whispering and pleading in the parlours     of condescension We pity you Your country's burning sun is nothing but a shadow On your serene ‘civilized’ brow And the thought of your grandmother's hut Brings blushes to your face that is bleached By years of humiliation and bad conscience And while you trample on the bitter red soil of Africa Let these words of anguish keep time with your restless      Step - Oh I am lonely so lonely here.   By: David Diop

Waiting
	Long- er than the y a w n of the moon in a sky so brown with heels of fleeting fancies a diamond tear waits, tremulous, in the eye of the cloud, dropping Niyi Osundare

Our History to precolonial Africa

And the waves arrived. Swimming in like hump-backed divers With their finds from far-away seas.   Their lustre gave the illusion pearls As shorewards they shoved up mighty canoes And looked like the carcass of drifting whales.   And our sight misled us When the sun's glint on the spear's blade Passed for lightning And the gun-fire of conquest The thunderbolt that razed the forest.   So did our days change their garb From hides of leopard skin To prints of false lions That fall in tatters Like the wings of whipped butterflies.   By: Mbella Sonne Dipoko

Song of Praise

A Song of Praise                   An oriki is a praise song or an attribution to a person. Praise songs are an important part of Yoruba oral traditions. The following oriki was sung by one of Olowe's wives and reveals the extent of his fame. photograph by Joyce M. Sims   I am...Oloju-ifun Olowe Olowe, my excellent husband. Outstanding leader in war. Elemoso. [Emissary of the king.] One with a mighty sword. Handsome among his friends. Outstanding among his peers. One who carves the hard wood of the iroko tree as though it were as soft as a calabash. One who achieves fame with the proceeds of his carving. The frightening Esu his forbids being burnt. The frightening Esu his forbids being hurt. Whoever burns him [Olowe] invites trouble. Whoever hurts him [Olowe] incurs the wrath of Esu, [Esu] forbids that [Olowe] be publicly disgraced. Olowe, you are great! You walk majestically And with grace. A great man, who, like a mighty river, flows beneath rocks, Forming tributaries Killing the fish as it flows. A river has no slaves, His father had slaves The unworthy dead are his father's slaves. But, Olowe is honorable. The son of one who dines with masquerades. The son of the great elephant killer in the forest. Even though he slaughters a dog at home And a slave behind the house He is only interested in joining them in consuming the dog. He does not join them to eat Elekole's slave. Although Elekole has a good name, his oriki spoils it. The son of Elekole, who has an overabundance of clothes And uses them to wrap the Ose tree. His cloth is so plentiful that there is enough to throw away. The one whose house is painted white [with lime chalk] right up to the gate. Rather than being ugly, the lime chalk makes it attractive. It is against Olowe's custom, And so we do not use ego to drink water in his house. My lord, I bow down to you, Leader [senior head] of all carvers. He is a great dancer, Whose dancing entertains. I adore you! You have done well. You have brethren who are not uninitiated. The ignorant person who does not know his mother today will never know her. You, the brethren of Ejige, where rituals are performed. I shall always adore you,my lord. He [Olowe] spends iroko money to achieve great things, Who carves the iroko tree with the ease of carving a calabash. Whoever meets you unawares risks Becoming a sacrificial victim. Whoever meets you unawares Sees trouble. I shall always adore you, Olowe! Olowe, who carves iroko wood. The master carver. He went to the palace of Ogoga And spent four years there. He was carving there. If you visit Ogoga's place And the one at Owo, The work of my husband is there. If you go to Ikare, The work of my husband is there. Pay a visit to Igede, You will find my husband's work there. The same thing at Ukiti. His work is there. Mention Olowe's name at Ogbagi In Use too, My husband's work can be found. In Deji's palace, My husband worked at Akure. Olowe also worked at Ogotun. There was a carved lion That was taken to England. With his hands he made it.   From: The Yoruba Artist: New Theoretical Perspectives on African Arts. Edited by Rowland Abiodun, Henry J. Drewal, and John Pemberton III. Washington, DC: Smithsonian Institution Press, 1994; pp 100-102. Recorded by John Pemberton III, 12 June 1988, at Olowe's house at Ise Ekiti. Sanmi Adu-Fatoba transcribed the oriki and Rowland Abiodun assisted in the translation.

Outsider

Between the oyster-beach and the greens... Sea and barren coast. Between tresses of dark silver and reels of danger... lonesome bird of the wilds! I spat on the world from between my gums, Shouted at the moon from between my lungs, Hooted at the chirrupy mermaid of the dusk... clever lad of goddam tribe! Then came the winds, flushing hearts, The rains came, drenching all their mirth, Came thunder scattering all irrelevance.. happy child of the new testament! There were tears, then, when I was born, There were aches, too, when I was born Tears to drop, and hearts to ache, No brains to pry, no minds to try Where, when I was born. So take, take me away! Send, send me away! Let the gold I loved which never was Delude its glory-minded prodigy. Send, O send me away! By: Micheal Echeruo

Native Your eyes toe-set thumb my nerves as you weave your being into frenzy; and your tongue, weaving a song, painting the scenes as I sit toe-dancing Then you pull those eyelids over as you bend downwards to dance yourself into goddess; And your waist, swinging to rhythm, answering the drum as I look, headshaking. Then light fades, those scenes fly as you stretch your being, panting, and your mouth, muttering my name, stifling my nerves as I end my verse! By: Okogbule Wonodi (Dedicated to Miss Eunice Akaninwa and the village girls who do the dance I know well. 21:1:63)

Noliwe The weakness of the heart is holly... Ah! You think that I never loved her My Negress fair with palmoil, slender as a plume Thighs of a starlet otter, of Kilimanjaro snow Breasts of mellow rice-fields, hills of acacias under the East Wind. Noliwe with her arms of boas, lips of the adder Noliwe, her eyes were constellations there is no need of moon or drum But her voice in my head and the feverous pulse of the night… Ah! You think that I never loved her! But these long years, this breaking on the wheel of the years, this carcan strangling every act This long night without sleep I wandered like a mare from the Zambezi, running and rushing at the stars Gnawed by a nameless suffering, like the leopards in the trap. I would not have killed her if I had loved her less. I had to escape from doubt From the intoxication of the milk of her mouth, from the throbbing drum of the night of my blood From my bowels of fervent lava, from the uranium mines of my heart in the depths of my Blackness From love of Noliwe From the love of my black skinned People. By: Leopold Sedar Senghor

Songs of Sorrow Dzoghese Lisa has treated me thus It has led me among the sharps of the forest Returning is not possible And going forward is a great difficulty The affairs of this world are like the chameleon faeces Into which I have stepped When I clean it cannot go. I am on the world’s extreme corner, I am not sitting in the row with the eminent But those who are lucky Sit in the middle and forget I am on the world’s extreme corner I can only go beyond and forget. My people, I have been somewhere If I turn here, the rain beats me If I turn there the sun burns me The firewood of this world Is for only those who can take heart That is why not all can gather it. The world is not good for anybody But you are so happy with your fate; Alas! The travelers are back All covered with debt. II Something has happened to me The things so great that I cannot weep; I have no sons to fire the gun when I die And no daughters to wail when I close my mouth I have wandered on the wilderness The great wilderness men call life The rain has beaten me, And the sharp stumps cut as keen as knives I shall go beyond and rest. I have no kin and no brother, Death has made war upon our house; And Kpet’s great household is no more, Only the broken fence stands; And those who dared not look in his face Have come out as men. How well their pride is with them. Let those gone before take not They have treated their offspring badly. What is the wailing for? Somebody is dead. Agosu himself Alas! A snake has bitten me My right arm is broken, And the tree on which I lean is fallen Agosu if you go tell them, Tell Nyidevu, Kpeti and Kove That they have done us evil; Tell them their house is falling And the trees in the fence Have been eaten by termites: That the martels curse them. Ask them why they idle there While we suffer, and eat sand, And the crow and the vulture Hover always above our broken fences And strangers walk over our portion. By: Kofi Awoonor 'This is a poem that catches most pleasantly the tone and content of traditional lament...piling up images of sorrow' Nwoga.

Ibadan
	Ibadan, running splash of rust and gold-flung and scattered among seven hills like broken china in the sun. J.P. Clark

Olokun

I love to pass my fingers (As tide thro' weeds of the sea And wind the tall fern-fronds) Thro' the strands of your hair Dark as night that screens the naked moon: I am jealous and passionate Like Jehovah, God of the Jews, And I would that you realise No greater love had woman From man than the one I have for you! But what wakeful eyes of man, Made of the mud of this earth, Can stare at the touch of sleep The sable vehicle of dream Which indeed is the look of your eyes! So drunken, like ancient walls We crumble in heaps at your feet; And as the good maid of the sea, Full of rich bounties for men, You lift us all beggars to your breast. By: J. P. Clark

Love Apart
	The moon has ascended between us, Between two pines That bow to each other; Love with the moon has ascended, Has fed on our solitary stems; And we are now shadows That cling to each other, But kiss the air only.   By: Christopher Okigbo

NewComer iii (for Goergette)
	In the chill breath of the day's waking comes the newcomer when the draper of May has sold out fine green garments, and the hillsides have made up their faces and the gardens               on their faces a painted smile: such synthetic welcome at the cock's third siren when from behind bulrushes                waking in the teeth of the chill Maymorn comes the newcomer. By Christopher Okigbo

The Stars Have Departed
	The Stars have departed, the sky in monocle surveys the worldunder The stars have departed, and I-where am I? Stretch, stretch, O antennae, to clutch at this hour, fulfilling each moment in a broken monody. Christopher Okigbo

For He was a Shrub among the Poplars

For he was a shrub among the poplars Needing more roots More sap to grow to sunlight Thirsting for sunlight A low growth among the forest. Into the soul The selves extended their branches Into the moments of each living hour Feeling for audience Straining thin among the echoes; And out for the solitude Voice and soul with selves unite Riding the echoes Horsemen of the apocalypse And crowned with one self The name displays its foliage, Hanging low A green cloud above the forest. Christopher Okigbo

Olayimika

Song of a first born daughter to the beats of gangan. I am the first fruit of your loins. Seasoned with grace. Seasoned with salt. I stride to drumbeats. Flywhisks attend my hands. Like anklets of brass, joy encircles. I am the consolation, born for the day of affliction. I am the vigour, the virgin seed, roosting under coverlets of aso-oke. Down the winding road, I nurture the handkerchiefs for champions who cry... Behold the daughter, your blessed harvest. Your basket of plump yams. Your scented one. By: TOYIN ADEWALE

For Winifred Mandela

Madikezela mama Madikezela mama Soweto children cry Soweto children die. You’re in my way Apartheid You’re in my way Apartheid!   You wept—you worked—you prayed Beyond the iron walls of Robben Island Rallied the people towards freedom Healed the sick and raised black women’s pride. You endured the hurts of your womaness denied Postponed your orgasms for the revolution sake. Banned and relegated to a nomadic existence Stripped of your citizenship with your babies on your back.   Madikezela  mama Madikezela mama Soweto children cry Soweto children die. You’re in my way Apartheid You’re in my way Apartheid!   Nelson calls you comrade now His effort to define your consummated union In the bed of the struggle—the bed of the liberation. The wife he could not husband The children he could not father, While you the fearless womb’ed champion for the poor Social welfare advocate for the motherless you adore.   Madikezela mama Madikezela mama Soweto children cry Soweto children die. You’re in my way Apartheid You’re in my way Apartheid.   Now they don’t mine for the diamond and gold you carry In your bosom—the cradle of the struggle; Instead, they are digging for the dirt, Underneath your fertile woman skirt. Oh mama Africa—lawd it must really hurt. You who gave blacks in the Diaspora reason to fight Against the injustice, bigotry and anarchy of Apartheid Now your beauty shrouded behind corruption Oh mother of the world-nations-black, Zulu gods must be crazy now.   Unkulunkulu Unkulunkulu Unkulunkulu Soweto ma Unkulunkulu Soweto ma Madikezela mama Madikezela mama Soweto children cry Soweto children die You’re in my way Apartheid You’re in my way Apartheid You’re in my way You’re in my way!   Freedom come But we noh get none Freedom come But we noh get none Freedom come But we noh get none.   Madikezela mama Madikezela mama. Madikezela mama.   By: Andrene Bonner

Ode To James Baldwin

Berdis rejoiced at your arrival Bright-eyed windows to the soul First born. Black boy. Black man. Leo. Lion heart. New York. 1924. Black people in America were defining a culture. A renaissance — a critical time when we took a stance. Harlem was giving birth to black intellectuals Revolutionaries—dancers—musicians—writers and orators. An explosion of black churches on every Amen Corner Stirs the conscience of the people live Chant prayers for their redemption power. Your youthful sermons rang the gospel bells of heaven. Angels genuflect at your passion for black man’s freedom, Where pearly white mansions pale to any urban shift of hope From the ghetto’s of the north and the slave quarters of the south Where you believe the Negro can become better than he is. Winding railroads your hands did fashion Vibrate with songs and cries of our ancestors. Your black boygirl skin too feminine to shout Black Power, Too feminine to articulate our cries against injustice—so they say. And step-pa Baldwin say you so ugly as he defines manhood by The revolutionaries: Marcus, Martin, Malcolm, Mandela, Ture and the Christ, In a culture where spirituality and sexuality are as Diametrically opposing as church and state. So when you intone Go tell it on the mountain, Many did not listen and Emmet Till dies over and over again. Mother’s and fathers rage but for a welfare system to appease the pain. Mississippi 1955. Whoa! Whoa! Black man burns. Still burns. John Grimes still struggles to be understood, A benediction to our suffering. Those not so subtle Blues for Mister Charlie. Did you really want integration Jim? Did your really want to connect and not divide? And they still murder the children. Evidence of things not seen. And some blacks wait for justice in the sweet by and by To avenge the sufferings that isolates them and, Where the angels won’t contest their citizenship And redemption songs will no longer be under big brother’s scrutiny. And some black folk still find expression – find voice in Harlem. And black girlish boys and boyish girls find Greenwich Village Tolerable to their rhythm and blues--ballet jazz tap shoes, While others find creative asylum in France Where they can sing and rave Black dance. For the darkness of our skin still intimidates America. As behind white sheets and crosses they burn our houses. Tell me Jim, whose Fire Next Time? By Andrene Bonner

Abiku

Coming and going these several seasons, Do stay out on the baobab tree, Follow where you please your kindred spirits If indoors is not enough for you. True, it leaks through the thatch When flood brim the banks, And the bats and the owls Often tear in at night through the eaves, And at harmattan, the bamboo walls Are ready tinder for the fire That dries the fresh fish up on the rack. Still, it's been the healthy stock To several fingers, to many more will be Who reach to the sun. No longer then bestride the threshold But step in and stay For good. We know the knife scars Serrating down your back and front Like beak of the sword-fish, And both your ears, notched As a bondsman to this house, Are all relics of your first comings. Then step in, step in and stay For her body is tired, Tired, her milk going sour Where many more mouths gladden the heart. By J.P. Clark

One Special Market Woman

She spreads her legs wide open--cuddle bankra, Frock falls graceful between her thunder thighs. Breasts round like one big papaya--hides her secrets Boat-neck cotton blouse makes her cleavage look divine.   She smells like Benjamin’s rose water Dark and soft and smooth as Indian silk Eyes like purple ripe star apples Seen the world and many moons from where she sits.   Her head is crowned with bright bandana Sweet sap leaf on forehead keeps her pressure down. One lead pencil stuck behind her right ear, Scratch down poor peoples debt from year to year.   Lips wide like gramma yesterday pudding pan Makes her laughter more resonant— more infectious. “Don’t touch me tomato if you nah buy, Stop feel up feel up mi mango—you keep yuh small change!” By: Andrene Bonner

Black Woman

Naked woman, black woman Clothed with your colour which is life, with your form which is beauty! In your shadow I have grown up; the gentleness of your hands was laid over my eyes. And now, high up on the sun-baked pass, at the heart of summer, at the heart of noon, I come upon you, my Promised Land, And your beauty strikes me to the heart like the flash of an eagle. Naked woman, dark woman Firm-fleshed ripe fruit, sombre raptures of black wine, mouth making lyrical my mouth Savannah stretching to clear horizons, savannah shuddering beneath the East Wind's eager caresses Carved tom-tom, taut tom-tom, muttering under the Conqueror's fingers Your solemn contralto voice is the spiritual song of the Beloved. Naked woman, dark woman Oil that no breath ruffles, calm oil on the athlete's flanks, on the flanks of the Princes of Mali Gazelle limbed in Paradise, pearls are stars on the night of your skin Delights of the mind, the glinting of red gold against your watered skin Under the shadow of your hair, my care is lightened by the neighbouring suns of your eyes. Naked woman, black woman, I sing your beauty that passes, the form that I fix in the Eternal, Before jealous fate turn you to ashes to feed the roots of life. By Leopold Sedar Senghor

Requiem: 5

I shall sit often on the knoll And watch the grafting. This dismembered limb must come Some day To sad fruition. I shall weep dryly on the stone That marks the gravehead silence of A tamed resolve. I shall sit often on the knoll Till longings crumble too. O I have felt the termite nuzzle White entrail And fine ants wither In the mind's unthreaded maze. Then may you frolic where the head Lies shaven, inherit all, Death-watches, cut your beetled capers On loam-matted hairs. I know this Weed-usurped knoll. The graveyard now Was nursery to her fears. By: Wole Soyinka

Who Buys My Thoughts

Who buys my thoughts Buys not a cup of honey That sweetens every taste; He buys the throb, Of Young Africa's soul, The soul of teeming millions, Hungry, naked, sick, Yearning, pleading, waiting. Who buys my thoughts Buys not some false pretence Of oracles and tin gods; He buys the thoughts Projected by the mass Of restless youths who are born Into deep and clashing cultures, Sorting, questioning, watching. Who buys my thoughts Buys the spirit of the age, The unquenching fire that smoulders And smoulders in every living heart That's true and noble or suffering; It burns all o'er the earth, Destroying, chastening, cleansing.  By: Dennis Osadebay

Abiku

In vain your bangles cast Charmed circles at my feet; I am Abiku, calling for the first And the repeated time; Must I weep for goats and cowries For palm oil and the sprinkled ash? Yams do not sprout in amulets To earth Abiku's limbs. So when the snail is burnt in his shell Whet the heated fragment, brand me Deeply on the breast. You must know him When Abiku calls again. I am the squirrel teeth, cracked The riddle of the palm. Remember This, and dig me deeper still into The god's swollen foot. Once and the repeated time, ageless Though I puke. And when you pour Libations, each finger points me near The way I came, where The ground is wet with mourning White dew suckles flesh-birds Evening befriends the spider, trapping Flies in wind-froth; Night, and Abiku sucks the oil From lamps. Mothers! I'll be the Suppliant snake coiled on the doorstep Yours the killing cry. The ripest fruit was saddest; Where I crept, the warmth was cloying. In the silence of webs, Abiku moans, shaping Mounds from the yolk. By: Wole Soyinka

A Call

She did not call me by name Not by the name my mother gave me She called me by another name A word I have not heard it before Yet I knew it was me. Will you come under the cashew tree beside the cemetery? I know no cashew tree beside the cemetery No, I don't. Yet I will go. Perhaps a revelation awaits me Have they discovered the coloured cowrie? Or the specific herbs that will conjure They perhaps have found the lost wanderer I went after her. She stood still beneath the cashew And spoke not a word. By George Awoonor-Williams

Meeting

When I arrive in Nairobi I will be wearing a face Not so different from The one you saw some seasons ago. My spectacles, now bifocal, Their frames round-rimmed with the years, Still sit on the humble bridge Of my nose. I peep through them Like a sage stitching the rags Of a broken age. You will find a moustache Blooming patiently on the cliff Of my upper lip. And a mane, now low-cropped, triumphantly salt-and-pepper Delectably groomed. By Niyi Osundare

When You See Me, What Do You See?

When you see me, what do you see? Do your instincts tell you to clutch your purse?. Or were you brought up that way and this is no longer a wasted verse. Do you imagine a video girl or a rap star?. Not knowing my achievements have taken me so far. Do you think my conversations consist of cursing and Ebonics?. Not knowing I tutored kids so they don't need hooked on phonics. Do you see me as someone who uses the system?. Not knowing the system keeps my people from true wisdom. Do you think I cannot achieve in this life?. Not knowing my rights. Have been denied since light. I am Buchi Emecheta, I am Langston Hughes. I am bell hooks, I am Sojourner Truth. I am Alice Walker. I am a daughter. A mother. A sister. A listener. Innovator. And Creator. Toni Morrison. I know I can. I am Nigerian American. So please grasp that ma'am. When your purse is in your hand. By Valerie, May 26, 2003

Dear Africa
	Awake, thou sleeping heart! Awake, and kiss The love-lorn brow Of this ebon lass, Dear Africa. Whose virgin charms Ensnare the love-lit hearts Of venturing youth From other lands. Awake, sweet Africa Demands thy love. Thou sleeping heart! When the all-summer sun Paints the leafy boughs With golden rays, Know then, thou sleeping heart, Dear Africa stands Knocking at thy door.  By Micheal Deo-Anang

Servant-Kings
	Leave them alone, Leave them to be Men lost to shame, To honour lost! Servant kinglets, Riding to war Against their own, Watched by their foes Who urge them on, And laugh at them! Leave them alone, Men lost to shame, To honour lost. By: R.E.G. Armattoe

Art Sanctuary

I would always choose to be the person running rather than the mob chasing I would prefer to be the person laughed at rather than the teenagers laughing I always admired the men and women who sat down for their rights And held in disdain the men and women who spat on them Everyone deserves Sanctuary a place to go where you are safe Art offers Sanctuary to everyone willing to open their hearts as well as their eyes. By: NIKKI GIOVANNI

Revolution
	Great mob that knows no fear- Come here! And raise your hand Against this man Of iron and steel and gold Who's bought and sold You- Each one- For the last thousand years. Come here, Great mob that knows no fear, And tear him limb from limb, Split his golden throat Ear to ear, And end his time forever, Now- This year- Great mob that knows no fear. By: LANGSTON HUGHES

Idoto
	Before you, mother Idoto,           naked I stand, before your watery presence,           a prodigal, leaning on an oilbean; lost in your legend... Under your power wait I on barefoot, Watchman for the watchword at           HEAVENSGATE; out of the depths my cry give ear and hearken. By Christopher Okigbo

Watermaid II
	Bright with armpit-dazzle of a lioness, she answers, wearing white light about her; and the waves escort her, my lioness, crowned with moolight. So brief her presence-, match-flare in wind's breath- so brief with mirrors around me. Downward... the waves distil her: gold crop sinking ungathered. Watermaid of the salt emptiness, grown are the ears of the secret. By Christopher Okigbo.

Streamside Exchange
	Child: River bird, river bird, Sitting all day long On hook over grass, River bird, river bird, Sing to me a song Of all that pass And say, will mother come back today? Bird: You cannot know And should not bother; Tide and market come and go And so shall your mother, By: J.P. Clark

Night Rain

What time of night it is I do not know Except that like some fish Doped out of the deep I have bobbed up bellywise From stream of sleep And no cocks crow. It is drumming hard here And I suppose everywhere Droning with insistent ardour upon Our roof thatch and shed And thro' sheaves slit open To lightning and rafters I cannot quite make out overhead Great water drops are dribbling Falling like orange or mango Fruits showered forth in the wind Or perhaps I should say so Much like beads I could in prayer tell Them on string as they break In wooden bowls and earthenware Mother is busy now deploying About our roomlet and floor. Although it is so dark I know her practiced step as She moves her bins, bags and vats Out of the run of water That like ants gain possession Of the floor. Do not tremble then But turns, brothers, turn upon your side Of the loosening mats To where the others lie. We have drunk tonight of a spell Deeper than the owl's or hat's That wet of wings may not fly Bedraggled up on the iroko, they stand Emptied of hearts, and Therefore will not stir, no, not Even at dawn for then They must scurry in to hide. So let us roll over on our back And again roll to the beat Of drumming all over the land And under its ample soothing hand Joined to that of the sea We will settle to sleep of the innocent and free.   By: J.P. Clark

Young Africa's Plea

Don’t preserve my customs As some fine curious To suit some white historian’s tastes. There’s nothing artificial That beats the natural way In culture and ideals of life. Let me play with the whiteman’s ways Let me work with the blackman’s brains Let my affairs themselves sort out. Then in sweet rebirth I’ll rise a better man Not ashamed to face the world. Those who doubt my talents In secret fear my strength They know I am no less a man. Let them bury their prejudice, Let them show their noble sides, Let me have untrammelled growth, My friends will never know regret And I, I never once forget   By: Dennis Osadebay

African Easter

III Easter Morning   THE AFRICAN INTELLECTUAL:   Ding dong bell Pussy’s in the well.   Another day….   Sleep leaves my opening eyes slowly Unwillingly like a true lover.   But this day is different. The lonely matin bells Cut across the thin morning mist, The glinting dew on the green grass, The cool pink light before the heat of day, The sudden punctual dawn of tropic skies, Before the muezzin begins to cry, Before the pagan drums begin to beat.   Easter morning.   But still for me The great rock remains unrolled. Within my wet dark tomb Wounded peace remains embalmed, The pricking thorns still yet my crown.   Easter morning. Where are my ancestral spirits now? I have forgotten for many harvests To moisten the warm earth With poured libations. Where are you now, O Shango? Two headed, powerful Man and woman, hermaphrodite Holding your quivering thunderbolts With quiet savage malice; Brooding over your domain, Africa, Cuba, Haiti, Brazil, Slavery of mind is unabolished. Always wanting to punish, never to love.   I have turned away from you To One who stands Watching His dying dispossessed Son Shouting in Aramaic agony Watching the white Picasso dove Hovering above the Palestinian stream Watching and waiting, sometimes To punish, always to love.   Sleep confuses my tired mind Still the bell rings I must up and away. I am a good Churchman, now. Broadminded, which means past caring Whether High or Low. The priest may hold the chalice, Or give it to me. It depends On where he trained. I only mind That he wipes the wet rim Not to spread dental germs. A tenth of my goods I give to the poor Through income tax.   Easter morning.   Yet you Christ are always there. You are the many-faceted crystal Of our desires and hopes, Behind the smoke-screen of incense, Concealed in mumbled European tongues Of worship and of praise. In the thick dusty verbiage Of centuries of committees Of ecumenical councils. You yet remain revealed. To those who seek you. It is I, you say. You remain the sepulcher Of my brown body.   Christ is risen, Christ is risen!   You were not dead. It was just that we Could not see clearly enough. We can push out the rock from the inside. You can come out now. You see we want to share you With our masters, because You really are unique.   The great muddy river Niger, Picks up the rising equatorial sun, Changing itself by slow degrees Into thick flowing molten gold.   By: Abioseh Nicol

Apocalypse

In the last days, Strange sights shall visit the earth. Sights that may turn to blood the moon, This sun to midnight-in the last days.   But now, when swords are not yet ploughshares, And spears still spears, Hearken you, my little ones.   If walking, shaded by the mango tree, Or running naked, scorched by this blazing sun, You aught perceive Now, while the arrow remains arrow, And the miracle of spears and pruning hooks Still remains an unseen miracle Remember, my little ones If perchance your infant feet do slide And you find yourselves in some mysterious dungeon Of black vengeful Sasabonsam, In realms where dogs make speech, And horns adorn the human front; Where mermaids in their skirts of silvery scales And chattering sea beasts flout mankind- If in this strange sub-human realm Your eyes fall on a stone, a hard black stone, Lifeless and muddy, that has grown a beard, Pray children, pass silently by. Ask no questions. For you are face to face with the first days And the beginning and the end are one.   And in the end shall strange sights visit earth, Stones shall be turned to men And men to stones; Sparrows beget eagles And sand become good grain.   So children, If perchance you see a hare that roars Or an ape perched in a palanquin, Look on in silence. Quickly pass by. Quickly.   By: Frank Parkes

Be Nobody's Darling

Be nobody's darling; Be an outcast. Take the contradictions Of your life And wrap around You like a shawl, To parry stones To keep you warm. Watch the people succumb To madness With ample cheer; Let them look askance at you And you askance reply. Be an outcast; Be pleased to walk alone (Uncool) Or line the crowded River beds With other impetuous Fools. Make a merry gathering On the bank Where thousands perished For brave hurt words They said. Be nobody's darling; Be an outcast. Qualified to live Among your dead. By: Alice Walker