Beauty is a Woman

Not a Pyramid

This piece is a tribute to many who lost their savings and reputation to МММ (a Russian company that perpetrated one of the world’s largest Ponzi schemes of all time). Fooled with hope, men favor deceit; trusted on, thinking that Sergei Mavrodi will pay.

Dark Clouds

Dark clouds hover over us lately
one of such has cleared – Iberiberism.
When we were about to enjoy blue skies again,
another cloud sets in – Hopeism.

With faith borne out of decades of resilience
in due time this too will clear
“How can you be confident about this outcome?”
Weather-beaten optimism asks,
we’ve overcome adversities – Otokoto in 1996.

We’ll do it again
these dark clouds will blow over
Imo is bullish on Hope, on bouncing back.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020

Love Is a Child

Love is a child; it beliefs fairy tales –
pleasantries, fantasies, and happy endings.
Love is a believer; it blots out reason
inflicts its wounds with unfathomable sensibility
afoot, light-headed it condones deceits’ daring –
you can make a man out of an ape.
A Rake; can be reformed to be celibate
like Byron was to Annabella, Bill to Hilary.
Love is a sponge; it absorbs every crap
pacifies a tormented heart –
good men are dinosaurs – extinct.
Love is a verb, not an opium to get high on,
not a trophy you covert out of pity or envy
but such is Love’s lot – a virtuous villain.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020

My Captain, My Captain

My Captain! My Captain, my Captain!
Hoist this pink flag! Sail this full-rigged vessel
point your compass to my true-south
prop me up on the deck, spread me wide.
Set sail; set your propeller throttling –
this cruise I’ll revel – god, what a voyage
how the motion, the appeasing waves of the sea
rock me back n’ forth, from relish to ravish.
My Captain! My Captain, my Captain!
in your pilothouse what skilled sailor you’re
with a big rudder, steering me to Bermuda –
how oh your thrusters give the utmost zest.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020

Godfather

Homegrown, privileged – a handful of men;
organized, they extract rents, pull strings
cajole everyone for their own selfish good
at an expense that’s unfathomably gruesome.
Proceeds of public good they keep at bay
only for the welfare of family and cronies
‘whom-you-know’ and ‘whom-you-can-sway’ –
is their mantra insomuch as
power, wealth, and laurels are theirs
and their surrogates alone.
Good, God! Save me from these good-for-nothing men,
who knows what’s best for me – my Godfather.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020

Orange Room

In her striptease, worn
as inept as a mini without panties;
in this orange room – a private lounge,
stereo blasting, teenagers barely legal –
serving sparkling wine, topless n’ carefree.
Illuminated on the neon podium
her body oscillating to Fela’s Afrobeat
she took prisoners effortlessly by her –
swaying luscious hips, caressed ribcage
and licked red-tinted lips, stained with lust;
in this uproar, who would consent
she is paid; by men n’ women – old n’ young
to soothe their frayed nerves, to fulfill their whim
– a private dancer.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020

Reputation

Goodness may be worth a damn these days,
gracious old ways a fad – obsolete,
but cast it not away or be insensitive;
instead – embrace it, enhance it,
it is your irresistible attractiveness –
a trait that makes you a decent human.
It is your life’s work – your craft,
hone it, protect it, and display it
with the utmost care of an artist,
leave it not to chance, or be lazy about it–
your reputation.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020

A god

A piece of wood or stone
adorned with jewels n’ sprinkled blood
carved into the shape of a god –
the work of human hands.

A mouth they have, but cannot speak
Eyes, but cannot see, ears but can’t hear
Hands they have, but cannot feel
Feet, but cannot walk, throat but no sound.

The eyes of its worshippers invoke
this piece of craft with awe n’ reverence
addressing it in flattering libations
a divinity in their infallible imaginations.

Faith, the size of a melon, permits them
to see what they want to see – a god.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020

Another Wreck

Again they’ve refloated another wreck – Obigbo;
shy men of culture with a deep hatred
they consider themselves patriots, statesmen,
devout Muslim, intellectuals, earnest Christians
but they look on with folded hands.

That’s why you saw me: massacred in Asaba – ’67,
beheaded by fanatics in 2002 as George Orji,
murdered in cold blood in Abuja – APO-Six,
burnt to death like a criminal over Danish Cartoon,
deported from Lagos as an alien without recourse.

Wherever storms rage, there I perish
none contemplates the ashes of my burnt livelihood,
lends a voice to a to-be mother whose womb
has been split – the unborn reaped by miscreants
or consoles a father scavenging shallow graves for his son.

Which tribe are these ready for the Final Solution?
No one cares, or reckons, knowing them is a penance:
the gruesome sight of their mangled corpse
will dint your conscience with blood-guilt;
I am nothing to my countrymen – a mere game.

Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords | 2020