The era of a gun-less revolution is apparent. It’s a wave of social and political consciousness that must bring transformation in individual hearts and minds. It’s time to change or be swept with the flotsam and jetsam of the multifaceted decadence that has engulfed Liberia.
Pour August Rain, pour
Like we’ve never seen
Like Noah’s flood swells
Cleanse our hearts, our homes
Cleanse our backyards
Visit the workplaces, the offices
Flush away the career thieves
Kick out the fake degrees
The pastors, their concubines
Gush through the towns, the hamlets
Don’t spare the slums, the shacks
Rip the tattered clothes, the old shoes
The faded skins, the false identities
Drag Corruption ‘til his nose bleeds
Drown him in the River Du
Thrash Tribalism ‘til he suffocates
In the stinking waters of Soniwhen
Crush the hypocrisy, the impunity
The political banditry, the gluttony
The aversion for decent labor
The bitterness, the strife, the mistrust
Rave August Rain, rave
Bury the warmongers, the confusionists
Drag them with the reeking piles
Of rubble down Waterside
Wash away the blood, the tears
Wash away the broken spirits
Pour until Liberia sparkles
Until the Lone star glows again
And after that August rain
Let the sun shine once more
Let all things good and beautiful
All things nice and sweet
Sprout and cover this land
Let it become what it was to be
A Glorious Land of Liberty
— 2006
Harmattan
Many months of liquid terror of monsoon rain
Overthrown when a vicious conspiracy of dryness
Breaks loose upon West Africa to impose the reign
Of yet another climatic tyrant, the Harmattan
Water, the weapon of the ended era, becomes the gold
The air reeks of dry leaves, chilled bones, dry skin
Cracked lips, dust and smoke from arrogant bushfires
Dry riverbed riddled with countless rugged prints
Of hooves and paws of thirsty two and four legs
Driven from distant forest dwellings searching
for a brief respite from the prowling plague of thirst
They creep disguised under sleeves of somber noons
Camouflaged in ghostly shadows of moonless nights
Or cloaked in the hazy hue of dewy dawns
To steal upon muddied pools of severed streams
With desiccated breaths upon parched-up tongues
They stamp their characters on the arid canvass
Deep firm prints of the big, the bold and daring
Flippant prints of the young, the playful and naive
Erratic prints of the fearful, the weak and cautious
Marks of herds and marks of lonely prowlers
They all must journey to this eerie valley of life
Where Death through the thunderous peels
Of the hunter’s rifle and the unscrupulous fangs
Of beastly scum could for a hapless many make
This thirst quenching pilgrimage a wanton tragedy
But those who survive the moment must come
Again and again to this barren place of hope
Until it becomes an altar of a godless sacrifice
When the denuded riverbed cracks and gapes
Having usurped the very last of the mucky drops
Thirst, the slaying knife, with malice unrestrained
Begins to stab and slash until one by one the beasts
Like the leaves long before them surrender and fall
Just when the air starts to stumble and suffocate
On the nauseating stench of dehydrated death
Nature once again begins to conspire with the rain
— 2006
Love Delirium
When the fever of love grips the human soul, the mind concocts crazy and beautiful thoughts. It’s like the delirium of malaria fever—that muttering between life and death. Lona Misa is a poetic play on the name of the beautiful and famous Mona Lisa.
Why is your smile so pleasant like sweet wine?
Why do the sun and the moon sit in your eyes?
Eyes that enslave my soul with every glance
Why does nature brighten up when you’re around?
Have you also conquered the trees and the moonbeam?
How do you calm the wind and mellow the sunray?
How do you silence storms and harness lightning?
Is it with those boneless mountains rudely disrupting
The beautiful skyline of your unsuckled bosom?
Why do they thrust themselves in my line of vision?
Is it that from cradle to grave I shall forever crave
This breast thing? Just to think that it’s a mere cluster
Of milk glands covered by fat and skin—just that
But how is it that it ignites fire in my lip and fingers?
Touch me with those heaven-carved fingers
Let me see visions from love’s secret shrine
Your breath is like myrrh and frankincense
Breathe upon my heart and heal me of my aches
Why do you give me hope that there is love greater
Than this short-lived emotion bound thing I’ve felt?
Blind me that I will gaze upon thousand fields of roses
And not discern a rosebud lovelier than you’ve planted
Clog my nose with your honey fragrance that no perfume
No pheromone-faked perfume will deceive my senses
To crash again in the festering pool of unfulfilled love
Help me rediscover the divine in the ordinary things
Just to lay my head on your shoulder and find bliss
When your laughter and your whisper become music
When your voice washes over me like massaging oil
Trickling into secret folds and crevices to stir in me
Ten thousand and ten mega volts of untainted desire
Let me thrive on the sweet deception that no other walks
This earth fairer than thee my love, my Lona Misa
Come sit by my side let's count the stars and assure
Ourselves that the years of our love will be more
Let's listen to the music of the ocean and learn
Deep secrets of harmony, survival, secrets of power
Brush my skin with those dark long lashes Lona Misa
Whisper nonsense in my captive ears, nonsense
That dwarfs the thoughts of both Socrates and Solomon
When I’m a hostage under the spell of your love balm
Creature of pure delight from what distant shore
Did you land on the sunless beach of my broken heart?
Creature of pain I clearly see the day I shall die
I shall gaze upon your gorgeous ageing countenance
And weave my fingers in the strands of your kinky hair
When death’s slimy phalanges choke my airway
I won’t resist. I will have no regrets then—I found love
— 2006
Mister Vote-Buying Politician
This poem was engendered by the franticness and crudity of the past election campaign in Liberia. Vote, I believe, is a commodity that in the subtlest manner must be wooed and bought long before the physical election campaign is ever launched. Dishing out two cups of rice for a vote is as detestable as a attempting to flagrantly buy the love of a decent woman. Politicians must realize that campaigning is every day--what you say, think and do. And that elections can be won long before the campaigning ever started.
Please tell me Mr. Vote-buying Politician
How much do you offer for my vote?
A whole bag of rice or just a cup or two?
Is it a sack full of empty promises and blatant lies?
Or your one night lavish campaign party?
Tonight you let me wine and dine for free
Please tell me tomorrow just what will I eat?
How much, Mr. Desperate Politician?
A few days’ ride in your party pick-up?
When the campaign is over then what?
Will you give me lift in your fancy car?
Or will I have to go back to trekking on foot
Once again from Paynesville to Broad Street?
How much are you offering Mr. Politician?
Don’t tell me just a few lousy dollars.
Why, are you that cheap Mr. Politician?
Just how did you get your money?
How hard did you work, how much did you steal?
Did you have to kill to get rich?
How many, how loud did they cry?
Did you borrow all that money Mr. Politician?
How and when will you pay them back?
If you buy my vote will you sell it?
How much profit will that be Mr. Politician?
Will you stay with your party?
If you don’t win what will you do?
Will you stick around to prove your worth?
Or is your plane ticket already in your pocket?
What are your principles Mr. Politician?
What do you believe in, what do you dream?
If I were to sell my vote Mr. Politician,
They would cost you a lot more - your very soul.
But you see my vote is not for sale.
Just look around and you’ll understand.
Monrovia’s streets are dark and broken
Its desecrated soil washed by the tears of heaven
That connived with the winds of the ocean to conceal
The footprints of the devils that once walked here
In the crevices of the broken tarmac look closely
You will see specks of my brothers’ blood
They were slaughtered on these very streets
Just look under those overgrown rubble beneath the rock
The broken skull of my bosom friend lies there unburied.
Deep in the muddy waters beyond Duport Road
You’ll see the bones of a man, his, wife and children;
Scattered in the cold belly of the creepy swamp.
One foot of the little girl’s shoes is still lying there
Turn your eyes a little bit to the left side
You won’t miss the cutlass that mercilessly hacked
Their shivering flesh as they screamed to be spared;
It’s all rusted now and lying there innocently
You wouldn’t guess what abominations
Its wielder wrecked on those hapless souls.
Are you feeling sad yet Mr. Politician?
One last look under the sands of Coconut Plantation
You will see pieces of my sister’s hair
Once beautifully braided but now carelessly
Woven with the rot and dust of time.
Her cry for mercy has long been snuffled
By the angry ocean winds but the bullet
Is still lodged in the coconut tree nearby.
Do you now see why I don’t sell my vote?
They’ve long paid for it with their blood,
With their last breath of terror and agony.
If I should do justice to their memory,
I will choose to rise beyond self and mediocrity
To vote for a Liberia different from what we’ve known.
My vote is free and I will cast it for Liberia Mr. Politician.
Don’t patronize me with your endless smooth answers
Tell me we, all Liberia, will search for answers together.
Don’t only promise to make Liberia live again
Please tell me exactly how hard you hope to try.
And don’t you ever forget what you saw Mr. Politician!
And don’t you ever let it happen again Mr. Politician!
