Where do they go, those days of shameful silences?

Amidst the melee of decisions and
the clashing gears of crises begging spunk,
we watched the ascent of
the clockwork hands of time.
we watched their descent.
we stirred between divan and TV couch.
we hungered, thirsted, ate and slept.
next day, we stirred and
cracked the dead day’s casket open.

Look: two dozen, pale, paediatric hours.

Welcomewelcomewelcome fellow inmate,
to the Penitentiary of Silence,
where they haunt,
those days of cowardice.

Here’s how they go,
those days of buck-passing:
between clock and TV,
with a clickclickclick and a flicker;
with a surge of coloured motion
and the popopop of corn
through red and luscious lips,

Watching the ratatat of guns in distant killing fields.

Palls of gloom becloud an ancient land.
night dismembers youth.
haemorrhage of years and blood and bones and youth.

Come January, I clenched a fist and raised it at a mob.
around the bend had mustered
a long lifetime of shirked crises.
my courage was a disgraced cur straining at my leash,
yet, my feet were planted faster than palms
on raped savannahs.
the roar of the mob!
the flash of machete!
Rwanda! Rwanda! Rwanda!
and a futile, twitching fist unclenches in the mud.

Who are these tyrants dancing reggae to our dirge?

I watch eternity inch closer,
in the Penitentiary of the Silent.
dead men doing time,
manicuring dead talons.
firm fortresses fold and buckle.
purse-strings slacken in grave-bound fingers.
Sabacha! Seseko!
from the Penitentiary,
to the Morgue,
of the Silent...

Someone deader than I therefore,
scratch my fingers where they itch:
between their crusted junctions
on my palm’s truncated hand.
Dafur! Dafur! Dafur!
or else, teach me how not to die slow instalments.

Unless a good death mends a bad life.

© 2005 Chuma Nwokolo, Jr.