#68. Floetry by JulietKego: If I Die Again… (Destination: France and not Baga)!

 

I AM BAGA - Floetry by JulietKego

Two, Two hundred or Two thousand?
We debate numbers, carelessly offhand.
In an orgy of violence, in this desolate land,
while children are slaughtered like salah rams

In numbers to rival Bar beach grains of sand
and the zoo masters feed off goats and yams
So if I must die, and die, one day I must
I fear not, either a svelte bomb or a crude dagger

I ask for this one wish; honour my plea in trust
Let me die in far away Paris, not here in Baga
Here sons, now enemies; Boko Haramites
multiply like an army of fornicating termites

Take me there, far, far away from here.
For here, many the toga of terrorists bear
it is becoming so very hazy for me to really tell
between Dasukis and his many master-devils

A case of who is evil and who is purely evil?
All parties sullied, to darkness their souls did sell
Here, they piss, shit and spit on my grave
In this town I am ignored, cruelly scorned

Take me to France, lay me under Eiffel’s cave
Where I shall be honoured and mourned
by one million souls who’ll remember my face
CNN will call my name from sea to sea

Even old Fox will fold me in her cold embrace
while Dokpesi and NTA air Liverpool-Chelsea
matches and owambes; political parties’ campaign
And drink of my blood mixed with fine champagne

And on my grave they gladly, gleefully dance
Hapless, to deaf ears may I not plaintively cry
for between cowardice and cluelessness, I die
If I die, do not bury me in baga,
take me far, far away from Naija….

© Juliet ‘Kego Ume-Onyido (All rights reserved).

#73. Celebrating Death

Sometimes, we must have the courage to allow the pain

of losing a loved one flow naturally through our being.

Embracing death brings about a deeper healing

when we surrender and accept to let go of spirits gone

Know that their work here on earth is already done.

Let the mourning complete its cycle and season

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#67. And We Bore Witness to a Birth and a Death…

When they’re cloaked, they do seem so far apart.

But today, I saw them both seated

side by side; a birth and a death.

Different, yet same, when unsheathed.

And in the sacred, solemn hour,

down the corridors of death,

in a room with walls dark and grey,

we sat and held cold, feeble, tired hands.

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#66. Today, Rise After Yesterday’s Cries.

Yesterday, did you stumble, did you fall?

Are you uncertain about the looming ‘morrow?

Well, today’s ’bout celebrating joy and not sorrow.

If the world tries to bring you down,

Set not your beautiful heart into a frown!

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