POETRY: Kalakuta by ‘Niran Okewole

Chief priest say water no get enemy.

The lean figure of Koola Lobito strolls down

the fire-dancing god’s shrine, sax hanging

from a chain minted in the forge of Goree.

It is the prerogative of icons

to look and laugh at the teachers of nonsense,

the bare bottom of the sax –

since its incarceration, it no longer wears

trousers – farting sorrow, tears and blood

as zombies in parambulators execute an army

arrangement. Coffins for heads of state.

Kalakuta grass is hemp, not green,

spouts the Trinity College grad in Timbuktu

cell, whose crime was spoiling an army bicycle.

All hail expensive shit.

Back home,Togolese women conjure miracles

in large tureen pots, communal meals

to the crunch of confusion breaking bone,

till death, the August caller, sprang a rhythm

from the pouch of greatness.

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‘Niran Okewole is a poet and psychiatrist.