Believe me! He is real; but, she doesn’t exist.
On your screen, her photo – a deliberate fabrication
akin to the menace of malware and Photoshop
manipulated by a jackass in O-Town1 with ill intent
is not your moonshot cure to midlife’s loneliness.
Her gestures – a sham caught by your webcam
made real by an app is a decoy;
such a face has never been captured by a camera nor
her profile with the right resume to lure genuine –
sell not the bear’s hide before hunting it down.
You’ll wire cash for airfare from Abuja
for her to meet you in the flesh, time and again
he’ll defer, keeping you in expectancy like Christ’s coming
only to ask for more dough over and over;
she’s not the elixir to that excitement brewing in your foreskin.
Beware before you click;
pay attention; otherwise, you’re in a fix.
She’ll change your online dating experience for good,
save your love for another
he’s a con; you’re his maga2.
Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords.org | 2020
Dear January
It was reassuring to hear February at last gone
unprecedented, March changed everything
with an all-pervasive sense of uncertainty
April’s fear and anxiety took a while to register
eclipsing an entire year.
Au fait?
For once, we were threadbare,
our verity of being in control, having conquered Mars,
and sequenced the DNA dissipated.
May tore our core – beset by a spiteful virus
we were left burying the dead; counting the sick,
June threw a curveball;
behind masks, plexiglass screens, and barriers
Lockdown & Social Distancing became the norm.
Oft, I did assure myself the next moon will pass by in a flash
having now realized Life’s what’s and what’s not important
still, I miss my too-much-to-do-with-little-time lifestyle.
Sometimes in July, overwhelmed, I learned:
Peace is gold; friends and family priceless,
Giving is worthy; Money naught a be-all-and-end-all,
Reading is doing something, not doing nothing,
ZOOM nay the sole preserve of my son’s GF,
Mowing the lawn therapeutic.
And just before August break and the torrent in September
all knew the why, the what, the how, and the fix
yet its effects ricocheted through every alley –
from Brooklyn to Burma, Laos to Lagos, Paris to Peking.
Few dared; many had to sit on the couch and
pray for our heroes on the frontlines.
October, no cure yet,
the man on the right driving me nuts with his tweets
thinks it’s OK to drink bleach.
On the left, his adversary, who is in his second childhood
affirms mandatory mask is the wand
perhaps November’s hard-fought fraud-rumored victory
is the brain surgery we need to heal
before December bids goodbye –
the collective renaissance to combat a foe
that has rendered everything antediluvian.
My sincere regards, dear January, permit me, however, to
take a deep breath and scream: “2021 all hopes on you!”
Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala | Spilledwoords.org | 2020
The girl on the billboard staring at me
long hair, cone wrought bust, curvy built,
her clothes stylish – flawlessly tailored;
a skirt brief as a wink, long shapely legs,
black leather lace-ups with high heels.
She looks prettier than she did twenty years ago
when I went to prep, but not to my books pray,
but to a girl – my crush.
Then at spotting her, my heart pounded as though
I was a young proselyte before my deity.
Lately, folks say she’s all over town searching for me,
that she carries in her purse the love lines I wrote
and cowardly smuggled into her rucksack years ago.
How could she when she beholds me everywhere –
at intersections, at every magazine cover, I read?
How could it be? My cherished rhymes never
gained any scorn or laurel from her until now.
Endearment like stars must renew its luster
or face the worst fate: oblivion;
maybe, Caprice and women are intertwined.
Copyright © Ugo Nkwoala |Spilledwoords.org | 2020