I

The loud, cruel laughter of dirge
besieges us so greatly in the face of
wanton humiliation.
It comes mightily, crashing our aged
city walls, unearthing the foundations of
churches,
tolling bells in pulsated grief . . .

Dirge comes with thunder,
like the trumpets and horns of
treachery common with lachrymose compositions;
when rain suddenly comes,
we fret visibly.

The events of dirge are colourless,
edgy and heartless —
they speak of the signs of the times
towards the last drawn-curtain of
each playing age;
they are impetuous and laconic,
sweeping through homesteads
unsuspecting and naïve towards such
drab ceremonies.

Tabloids are weary of lamentations;
for, how long does one invoke
imprecations on dirge,
especially of the last lap . . . ?

Oh, the stench of dirge pervades this place!

Black banners litter streets.
Banana stems smell of putrid languor,
and handkerchiefs become salted specks of wail.

Beyond this confusion,
the loud, cruel cachinnation of dirge increasesꓽ
pervasive,
sending up whiffs of foul dismay
that caress the brows of owls yonder
and salute the cheery consternations of
subterranean masquerades
who fret before the courage of
white assembly . . .

How do you describe dirge,
knower of all books?
Have you once held dirge in between
your palms?
Is it true that it tastes quite
like the shea butter of a rancid age?

And you, physician, in truth, tell meꓽ
how do you measure the length of the loudness of
dirge —
are the length and loudness of this laughter
related to its cruelty?

Why I ask is because the laughter persists.

II

Strain your ears and listenꓽ
if this land on which this great evil was done
is not cleansed,
we are ruined.

COMPATRIOT, WHAT EVIL DO YOU SPEAK OF?

I mean the rape and desecration of the land,
the arrest and detention of the virgin daughters of
Okpolu,
at the cornfield,
behind the most treacherous darkness . . .
But a faint moonlight hiding behind the tall
breadfruit tree witnessed it all.
Such incestuous rape!
I fear greatly the manner of dirge
this village shall compose if this land
Is not cleansed, pumiced, swept . . .
It might be the worst dirge ever —
before or after —
the one common with the last lap,
and which cripples flatly a people.

III

Common lustre associated with baptisms
are no more;
promises of bright-coloured ribbons
are broken at the entrance of yellow palm fronds’
rituals of stale summons.
There really cannot be a resonance of
gentle, plain hymns, for, the synopsis of
a covetous dirge has just been
published.

IV

So,
what becomes our fate when
Eclipse and Thunder hum a dirge together?

It is like when Elephant and Hippopotamus —
two highly honoured members of the pachyderm
kindred —invade a farm.
Our fate shall be like a torched forest in the heart of
the Harmattan —with remnants of defiled foliage
once luxuriant.

And what becomes the fate of the
last lap in this age of dirge —
who weeps for it
or asks dirge to hold its breath of
torture?
Dirge of the last lap and
the last lap of dirge
are silent Eclipse and rambunctious Thunder
fused for eerie reverberations of echoes of
dirge.

V

And the last lap becomes as
tenuous as ever;
and with laboured breath,
it points its gaunt fingers
towards our tendon.
Obmutescent,
its impatient pulse betrays principles of
hate and grim patterns of expectations
common with the puzzles and conundrums of
the last lap.