AGAIN COMES THE TIME - Poems by Chika Obi (Published on The Kalahari Review on 15/08/2017)

DROUGHT IN THE LAND

Maybe we are at loggerheads with nature,
As the rains no longer come visiting.
Our gutters are left unwashed —
And our containers remain empty.
We now look to the sky,
Till our necks begin to produce unpleasant sounds.
A clear announcement of fatigue —
Yet not even a drop,
Descends on our foreheads.

Bouncing back to us,
The farm implements are unable to go deeper,
Even as we tried launching them into the ground.
The farmer tills and toils in vain —
As the earth remains unwilling,
To accept his seeds.
From all sides, flow no breakthrough.
Just like the Dead Sea —
Jammed are the wheels.
With nothing, unwilling to carry on.

Far more than a drop we need —
The rains we desperately crave.
Cracked now are our throats —
Thickly blocked, remain our nostrils.
Amongst us, hunger now dwells.
Just as catastrophe bids us welcome.

UBUNTU
Language of the South Africans,
Not to be mistaken for the spoken Afrikaans.
Spoken with so much pride —
Such that none should deride.

“I am because we are”,
That is the spirit.
The very object of motivation —
The lubricant,
That gets the easily-stuck wheel going.

Gradually, the bond came crashing —
Albeit not visible,
Within a split second.
In steadiness, the colour faded,
And at the same pace, the strength waned.

To the chagrin of all,
Into a coma, the spirit slipped.
Now louder gets the clamour.
Where went “Ubuntu?
Human kindness, who stifled?

Boundaries and linkages,
None currently considers.
We scream — Ubuntu! Ubuntu!
Oblivious of the deafened ears.
Along independent paths, all now seem to speed.

AGAIN COMES THE TIME
Our support they once clamoured for —
Double, we gave it to them.
Letting them dance on our cloaks-
We hoped they would have them cleaned,
Within a period
Not to be prolonged.

Our time others buy,
But to them, freely we gave out ours.
With no sense of reservation —
Never to think of haggling.
Willingly, to them we gave all —
Having no time to waste.

Again comes the time,
To hear fables upon gibberish.
The brains are squashed,
And the content swept away.
Befuddled now is the unsuspecting —
Bereft of what to believe.

Pinches of salt on our wounds they spray,
Our bleeding eyes,
Now to the sun exposed.
Their large and flamboyant apparel,
Hung with deceit,
On their psychedelic personalities.

Here comes the time —
When the commonwealth is capsized,
And our hope, downsized.
Though we smiled to the pools,
Yet upon our return,
Tears come greeting.
Just as we behold the thumbs in regret.