When December Calls: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

 I.        When December calls

With its cracked voice,

All ears must be glued

To the earth,

Knurling upon it in defiance.

When December booms

Its rhythm to the arid winds,

All legs must dwell the poor earth,

For when it keeps mute,

No one should come with a talking drum.

II.        If  you abhor cold,

Then you must keep your doors shut

When December knocks

Or else, roll out the welcome mats,

And scurry in

To gather dry woods

For burning in the oven;

December breathes cold,

December heralds harmattan,

Which hangs on my panes,

Memories long lost

In Sahara’s deepest recesses;

Memories blurred on

The face of history

Kneaded into dust

And sprayed off to

Embrace the winds;

Childhood memories undone;

Memories of charred lips and heels;

Of sweaty and cold feet;

Memories of the enduring smell

Of roasted cashew nuts

Wafted around the labored air;

Memories of the dreary noon,

The grey sky and the shy sun

III.       Know it my son

When December calls:

Its voice is discernible

And it’s all of harmattan;

The smell of harmattan

The smell of dust,

The smell of Christmas;

Relish the moments the season holds

Upon the cold dry terrace,

Upon the tinder bamboo benches

Under the leaf-roofed mango tree,

Romance these darling moments,

Forswear none for soon time

Shall forge them like a blacksmith

Into memories: sad memories.

Memories hurt - both good and bad.

But best memories hurt the most.

You wish to swim

Into these lovely pasts

And but once turn

These good memories into moments

And smell of their savouring scents.

There, the sadness engraves.

But a bad memory –

When thoughts fall on it,

Though wounded scars are,

You shut the door of return

Unto its dark silent castle

IV.       Beware my child,

I’ve tasted of memories,

Bitter and sweet

But they are all of harmattan;

I have tasted memories

All in this countryside:

Memories which have endured

On my lips as dirges

Sung in solitude,

Sung when darkness dominates;

They have bound my heart

To this soil of grief.

I’ve smelt sweet memories

Of harmattan,

Of the tide of dust.

V.        O harmattan is winter,

The difference is dust and snow

But both have chilling hands,

Both have cold breaths.

When December raises its thigh

Harmattan escapes its snare drum

And finds home on many tree tops

Pulling down yellow leaves

With its cruel hands

Until the trees become bare.

Even the mighty Iroko looses

Its leaves in December,

In harmattan.

The song birds are forlorn;

The sight of their abodes

Is now food for all eyes.

Once I saw them on naked trees,

When the sun had gone

Into the western crescent

And its shadows thrown abroad.

I heard them sing dirges,

So bitter so touching,

For the falling of leaves

VI.       No month in the year

Blessed us with fun as December

As our wits kissed adulthood;

December brought farmers

Who had found solace

In their farmsteads

To the wide-earthed streets

And once again, common voices

Interwove the yuletide air:

The shouts of infants at play,

The barks of dogs

And the bleats of goats.

And during the dull evening

Smokes meandered off to eternity,

Cuddling the grayish sky

VII       But Christmas bares it all:

These ecstasies flowing through marrows.

When we were young

The yuletide cuddled

Our faces with smiles;

There was the opportunity

To feed on the rarest delicacies -

Rice and chicken.

On the eve of Christmas

We chased our cock

In spite of the harmattan

Pulling virulently from the north,

We pursued after it

With zeal and courage.

When it had eluded all traps,

Then we must chase it

With cudgels into

The sprawling woods,

And break its legs.

VIII.    And on Christmas day,

When earthen pots were

Filled with water

And the faggot room

Full and breathless,

I slit the cock’s throat

And doused it in hot water,

Leaving it for children,

Dexterous in pulling

Feathers from cock.

But they were void

Of our sacred cultural ethic

That one mustn’t speak

While pulling fowl’s feathers.

Hence I sealed their lips:

Hush! Let the air know of peace,

Else the cock’s furs re-sprout!

IX.       Like the setting sun,

December kissed the crescent

Once Noel tide melted.

New Year eve was its peak,

Hosting on its tensed air,

Shallow and vibrant voices,

Voices flailed around,

Wrapped in excitements,

When the sun fell to darkness,

We retired to the holy ground;

Believers and pagans alike,

And sang praise to God and man

Hearing sermons from familiar priests

Until the joyous shouts of a birth

Travelled through the mid-night air;

January was re-born!

Ohikhuare Isuku is a poet from Owan tribe in Edo state. His debut play – The Ballot and the Sanctuary – is forthcoming from University Press Plc, Ibadan.

Twitter: @isukupoetry

Facebook: Emmanuel Ohikhuare Isuku