We move forward in conjectures
And backward in previsions.
The bayonets of servitude
Wax stronger and impetuous
As the cistern of citizenry,
Where compatriots drink from,
Has been maggot infested and bacterized.
The staff and crown of national disaster
Will continue to triumph
With penitence at her prime
Until we rise from the lowly bow
With a spirit of rectitude
To combat the atrocious perils
Perpetrated by the privileged.
I chose a rope for a necktie;
My neck and the fan were knitted together.
I ran on air and stood by.
Don’t judge me; let no one judge another.
I converted insecticide to drink
I tagged abomination to my name.
I let donkey years run down a sink.
Don’t judge me; we are all to blame.
You neglected this stress of my distress;
I got no one to carry along.
I sought a sort; your silence was a yes.
Don’t judge me; your silent noise was also wrong.
If you have seen the sorrows on my scroll
If you have said sweet speeches to my spirit,
If you have sung sonorous songs to my soul,
Then your sermon might seize my guilt.
Don’t judge me for I’m gone;
Wake up to see my footpath,
Save the soles of souls on the run
By spreading your concern above death’s bath.
Olinya Ibeh Abuchi is a Nigerian born writer and teacher. His works include short fictions, poetry, playlets, and essays. He refers to himself as a “Pidgin-English grammarian” and studies English,
Literature, and Education at the University of Benin, Nigeria. His
work has appeared on The Green Black Tales and elsewhere. Olinya writes
from a corner of his room in Lagos and sometimes from his desk in