Stranded am I half-coast a great city
A conurbation of which am not an Inuit
Looking back . . . I see a set of footprints
The heavy downpours have come . . . washed off my sand prints
And the ravens also came . . . stolen their memories off my still-hands
The city’ map seems blank to my eyes, and my understanding is a head-fall
Therefore I racked my head . . . but my strikes are too languid to crumble my brain wall
Cold-still, brain-drained and drenched in self pity I stand
Acknowledging to myself . . . “am confused”
A slave looks into the eyes of his slaver
And speaks deep in his soul . . . “like a flag I will flutter someday”
How is it he desires not to fight like Luther?
He is a student who adopts sleep like a sloth and despises to read like Achebe
And still he dreams to be the best in his grade
I put it to you . . . the chains are off his feet and have crawled to brain
I will whisper it to his ears . . . “you are confused”
“Emily is such a virtuous lady” they say . . . truly her kind doesn’t exist
But the stains of her message to her brother’ head still persist
And fresh in my memory is the gory reflection of skull soaked in pool of blood
It amuses me when the court finds her innocent of a crime . . . my Lord
The church which preach . . . “wages of sin is death”
Bestowed unto her a gift of eternal life in “Him”
Am in no position to condemn their stand
But can I say . . . “they are confused”
Brethren! See! They are doctors . . . concerned in life-saving actions
And yet He! Collects Naira from her habitually . . . for abortions!
I enquire . . . Does He deserve to be called . . . a skilled doctor?
Or rather . . . a death vector
Decide your stand now or face my judgmental heart
Even the Devil . . . the father of confusion can tell apart
I therefore apologize if I said erroneous things
But that doesn’t change your state . . . “confused man”
Have you heard a hungry man complain?
He needs not hide his foolishness in heart . . . it just comes plain
He will say . . . my paunch is bare and I yearn to feed
But am not all set to make fire to bake bread
Have you also heard a lethargic man talk of the future
His words are illusion and “myopism” is his nature
He will forever want to soar in life
But the warmth of his bed he can never immolate to strife
Who can I say is better amongst them?
My lads let me tell you . . . “they are both very confused”
A man once told to be a journalist of great moral fibre . . . and truth was his watchword
Wrote a column on me . . . crammed with fiction and falsehood . . . was damn awkward
Who then are you . . . to flash that card of yours?
And think I trust you to be pure
Take your damned soul for purification at your God’ feet
Then you can write on my sinful feat
Oh! You lack the basic ken of what your duty entails
Let me tell . . . “confused swindler”
Hostility is my best attire to my entire guests
And I call myself a receptionist
Or a night guard . . . Whose eyes battle to stay alive?
When the evil of dark lurks
Am I not confused?
My status as a man is not far off “confusion”
Take this to heart you which dwell amongst them
The more you look . . . the less you value their deeds
And the less you look . . . too much knowledge you let go
Stay steadfast and watch in symmetry
The beauty of minds unfurl
“This is the beauty of man’s mind”