Tunnel Of Confusion

I

The mysteries of human life

The success of our lives

Was also the cause of the tragedies

Tragedies are everywhere

Even among the churches

Full of self anointed “chosen ones”

“Winners” of the new God

“Metamorphosed” ones

But the pastors are having a full house regularly

As long as there is poverty and frustration in the country

And there has been poverty in the last three decades

The congregation look as thing as an orphan

Fed grudgingly by a cruel master

The church crawls sluggishly forward

Like a tortoise carrying a house

Bugged down by “spiritual” aids

Sycophant-like shelf

Held captive by fear of hell fire

The “pastors” - Imposters

Who committed to memory

A few passages from the good book

For the purpose of lending to their fraudulent sermons

Stealing in the name of God

The only distinguishing factor

Is that they are not “armed”

But armed they are

Armed with terror

Threats

Blessings – real and imaginary

Breakthroughs

I thought for a moment

There is something just sinister about most of these churches

Dad echoed my thoughts

They said we have the heart of stone

I said we have an open heart

That they need to shed their shelves

They said I’m not in the “spirit”

II

Charmed by the poise and confidence

Of their pastors and pretty young wives

The congregation melted

Cast down under foot and trampled

Their pastors

With disoriented sexual orientation

Enjoyed counseling young women

Fornicating and aborting

Charm encountering charm

The pastoral school didn’t have any effect on them

Hence they are internally changeless

Revival

Blessings, more blessings

Receive, receive it

Catch it

Hold it

Fold it

Someone made a pledge of 1 million bucks

Amen, amen, amen

And when you think it’s over

A moan swept from the crowd

One woman was screaming

Another woman was tumbling

A lady sank to her knees

Finally someone began to cry

Then another

Soon the whole congregation was crying together

All synchronized

Too beautiful

Too experienced

Too artificial

Too crazy

Smoking in the house of God

© Churchill Okonkwo 2008

As I sat by the fire and watched mother cook

She recalled stories of the dark ages

Whose significance are now lost

At nine, I ran away

Enough of these blackness and empty holes

I will not see again these fire woods

These black pots

I wandered east

As far as Ijora Bridge

Stopping at the edge of the black waters

That surrounds the National Theater

A year later

I had joined the men under the bridge

Bus conductor at daylight

Monster, smashing car windows at night

I’ve sometimes wondered whether

My brain is made of clay

The same black clay pot I ran away from

My origin still blurred and distorted

My destiny ever remote

What a transformation

I now fight like an ape

With my feet and fist

Bottles and knives

Changed my name from Uche to Segun

Big wrists, big hands

Brown teeth

Scares on my face

But my eyes still looks oddly innocent

Child of circumstance?

Born to suffer?

As years passed by

I metamorphosed

From an indigent child that lacked everything

To a monster that has everything

Yet, I have nothing

I had slept at the banks of the river

As we await the cover of darkness

To ride back to our dungeon

In a stolen canoe

After an unsuccessful overnight robbery

I had seen hulking figures

With sunglasses after dusk

Driving aimlessly in unmarked vehicles

Waiting for marked victims

In this city that is drifting

Pilgrims to unholy spots of Lagos

That never returned to tell their stories

Men on suite as sinister

As men under the bridge

Mother used to call me Nnam

When she though I was the one

The chosen one to wipe her tears

They used to call me Kekere

When I moved with the men under the bridge

I later choose Akwa Eke

I resonance with the rhythm

Emanating from my abode

Yesterday

While walking the dirty alley of Apapa

With hands in the pocket of my cheap coat

In search of a whore in the dark

I heard tongues I’ve heard before

I heard her call me Uchenna

The dark part of my brain was lit up

And the skeleton of my dead forefathers

Started turning in their graves

The whore happens to be kid sister – just turned fourteen

The hovering ghost of my dead mother

Ran forward with her spider-like fingers

And hung my head from an unseen rope

While urine darkened my trousers

I’m the bird

Crippled at birth

The headless dragon

That destroyed itself as elders watched

I’m that schoolmaster that can’t read nor write

The golden egg

That incubated in the bosom of wild creatures

The child, the gloomy future, the adult

With a tale of mindless violence

I’m the Nigerian child

© Churchill Okonkwo 2008

Don’t fear the captor

You are the captain

Rise up and take the cap

Go straight to the camp

And talk to the clique

We’ve to start something

We can no longer be slaves

Let the tyrant see

That we are now set

To start the endless siege

We cannot be daunted

The weapons are done

The battle is due

We’re not afraid of death

For we’re ready now

We’ve known our rights

We’ve decided to fight

And fight we will fight

Until victory is in sight

Until we see the light

© Churchill Okonkwo 2008