By
Noel Ihebuzor
By
Noel Ihebuzor
by
Noel Ihebuzor
On my way back from Lagos this morning, I ran into a friend who 20 months ago used to swear by GMB. Today, he was swearing at the man! TIME!
Disillusionment – “when you find yourself now beginning to swear AT the person you used to swear BY a few month’s ago”
Mental liberation – when the scales fall off your eyes and you begin to see clearly again, free from the manipulation of “influencers”
The arrogance of the ignorant is baffling, the ignorance of the arrogant more so, and the arrogance of the ignorant arrogant most so!
The tragedy of Nigeria is that she has always had elected persons who put the pursuit of personal interests ahead of institution building.
Bad leadership is characterized by excessive short-termism in vision and thinking.
Bad leadership is characterized by ignorance, arrogance and an unwillingness to recognize and remedy its fundamental ignorance!
Blaming one’s predecessor for one’s vision & strategic leadership failures is the best admission of & the lamest excuse for incompetence.
Best way a non-performer can hold on to power? Use the instruments of state power to intimidate and scatter potential opponents!
Does he/she seeking elected office possess functional competences in Economics & Public Policy? Does he/she believe in lifelong learning? Question for 2019!
By
Noel Ihebuzor
Ten hundred prayed for posts
Twenty pastors and thirty prophets
Prayed and brayed almost
Ten of the prayers, the preyed upon,
the prayed for, got the posts
And prayed on the post
Preyed on the people
All ten had juicy morsels
generously availed, padded
nine chewed their morsels and swallowed
morals mellowed, conscience shriveled,
cheeks blossomed and wardrobes overflowed
in a season of drought and bones
the tenth chewed and sucked,
till nought was left, save chaff and fibre
spat out, never swallowing
cheeks blossomed, morals mellowed
conscience in contraction
tongue active in denial
And she sweet sings herself
the beatification chorus for saints
I spat out and therefore am a saint
chew and swallow mean guilt
singing with a tongue that runs and rails
foams white and fumes
raw tongue running with serums of guile and rage,
shored up by fluids and anima
sucked out of now chaffed morsels
entrapped in self praise,
the singer forgets
that Mother Theresa
did not sing sainthood
to be sainted
If self praise is all it takes to be sainted,
then horses would be flying over low anthills
and praise singing themselves hoarse
to the thundering music of their noisy hoofs
rivaled by the grunting of pigs wearing cheap scents
rooting for sainthoods for cleanliness
By
Noel Ihebuzor
They grabbed him by his collar
dragged him to the ocean front
shouting, gesturing and swearing,
He was boxed on both ears,
his jaws, his chin, his ribs
were bashed, bruised, some broken
all the sins of the world,
all the failures were
heaped on him,
the “sealed” wombs,
every wasted wave,
all sterile flowers
all failed erections,
every flop, all power failures,
any incontinence….
they blamed on him
At the ocean front
The sky for their witness
They screamed at him,
they cursed him, they beat him
for their own weaknesses,
their failings and his
and yet he said nothing
and his silence
soon was their proof
For silence is guilt
Silence is complicity
was his silence smart?
Broken jaws lead to silence
The heavens remain silent
on the secrets of peoples
plants and planets
Does this silence,
then make them guilty,
complicit in our pains?
in this troubled world,
some plans are so twisted,
the waves sweep them
for safe keeping
to echoless silent chambers
where ageless mammy waters
moan day time half sated
when fortune hungry fishermen visit
and to whence they retire
to sleep all night
surrounded by winking periwinkles
when worn out,
without the hoped for fortune
and overworked
fooled fishermen return home to rest
their secrets carefully wrapped in silence
and concealed from their caring wives.
by
Noel Ihebuzor
Do not ask the Asaba woman
why she chose the snuff box
reasons are not always logical
the chooser knows best
and though saints shock us
by choosing to suffer, sadists believe
happiness awaits such a choice
Saints are not created by words
nor by fiat but by their works
Heroes are hailed not for their haste
but for their hard choices
Wizened eyes in the present
see shady pasts clearly,
and to such,
the present appears shady, unclear
Would saints sing the Asaba woman’s choice
as a sin, pure without any comma
or would their deep thoughts
judge her lightly as the victim
of a conscience that was in a coma
rationalisation potent as indignation
often bars the doors to truth,
shutters the windows,
sheds shady lights poorly to the realisation
that though choices are always personal,
choices are also always finally weighed
on a scale steeped in ethics
soaked in morals
Two nations
Space separated
Folly fused
Great poem. Helps me manage my feeling of loss.
for LC
I was going to list your loss
as the topper
to a very bad week–
first America
and now you
but your words
listened to with eyes closed
say you would have waited for this
eager, open to the possibility
of more direct wrestling
with angels.
Maybe this crack
in my skin
in my heart
in my hope
is not me mourning
but simply opening
to incandescence
I would rather live lit
than broken.
By
Noel Ihebuzor
when lies triumph over truth
& cheap trumps deep,
when shallow heels profound,
& cats are at the mercy of gropers
flee, my daughter, flee
fly, my daughter
the why of the lie
festers in the lair where lies the liar,
fast lips & slimy tongue crowding
the loud unrepentant mouth
when right is treated with levity,
& superficial is spun as profound,
noise drowns intellect,
asinine equations mistake
rectum for rectitude
lying tongues lie
in wait for the unwary
with syrups that dull-drowse
but rouse slippery rodents
of fear, hate, disdain of the other
by
Noel Ihebuzor
I will laugh with the greenness
of young blades of corn
thrusting forward, green and bold
in a land where virgins are
two for a grand
and impotent randy men
roam wide spaces
in quest of unstable risings
Do you hear the whispers
of the blade of corn,
young and talkative
as it sways to share its secrets?
and sell its prophecy?
The secrets of the farm,
its short tales, of staggered truths,
tales of men with huge trumpets,
elepant egos and stiff backs
tales of the empty baba rigas
are not told on market days,
nor on farm days
songs of noisy plantings
the flapping and chatter of leaves,
empty but full of naivety….
an empty harvest follows
and the once wet song
soon turns dry, wilts and withers,
leaves, once green,
now brown, twisted dry,
now cry.
Quietly after summer upon my body
Is she changing her colours again
Will we understand love before we make it
Will we honour the answers at this depth
Do we know what poverty is
Are we awake.