Let Us Talk About W.H. Auden's Poem - The More Loving One

W. H. Auden

Years ago, I read W.H. Auden's memorable poem - The More Loving One. It so much stuck to my memory that, it immediately became one of my favourites from the West. And for so many years after I was chanced to read this wonderful piece, it began to shape my general philosophy of love. It is a sad poem, and the poet must have written it to console himself of the pain of a love which he showed someone but was never given back.

Now, when I reread this poem, I think deeply of my two favourite lines:

   

                                         If equal affection cannot be,
                                         Let the more loving one be me.

Of course, there cannot be equal affection when two or more persons are in a relationship. No matter how perfect it may seem to viewers outside, there must be the one who loves more; who tends to show more affection. It is natural for mothers to love their children more than their children do to them. Fathers love their children more than their children love them due to obligations. Boys show affection more before courtship, and then during courtship (often times), the girls tend to carry this load on their head.

There is always sadness to loving more, because sometimes you desire affection of equal measure, which you may never get. Yet you cannot relax your love, because, it has become part of you, and you fear if you do let it wane, your partner would experience the bitter pain which you feel. Yet, it is safer to love more, because it brings joy to guard against other people's pain, even while you suffer depression.

In this poem of his, Auden has symbolized his friends as stars, and he begins with a sad note in the first two lines, when he writes: 'Looking up at the stars, I know quite well/ That, for all they care, I can go to hell'. Yet in the next two lines, the poet has revealed that he cares less about human's indifference towards those they should love. In the second stanza, Auden asks a question about unequal affection - if it were good to be on the gaining or losing side. Disregarding the consequences of loving more, Auden chooses to be on the negative side, when he writes that: 'If equal affection cannot be? Let the more loving one be more.'

The third stanza speaks again of the sadness of not noticing someone who spends much time to give you attention and love, yet you fail to give a damn. Auden makes us understand here that, if you push those who spend time to love you away, there will be a time when their passion for you will completely die off. Thus, in the last stanza, the poet draws the curtain by saying that if all stars (friends) should disappear, he should learn how to look at an empty sky, although it may take sometime. 

Read the poem below

THE MORE LOVING ONE

Looking up at the stars, I know quite well

That, for all they care, I can go to hell,

But on earth indifference is the least

We have to dread from man or beast.

How should we like it were stars to burn

With a passion for us, we could not return?

If equal affection cannot be,

Let the more loving one be me.

Admirer as I think I am

Of stars that do not give a damn,

I cannot, now I see them, say

I missed one terribly all day.

Were all stars to disappear or die,

I should learn to look at an empty sky

And feel its total dark sublime,

Though this might take me a little time.

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Apostle Suleman: What Wrong Has He Done Others Have Not Surpassed?

Lately, there has been grave annoyance bottled inside me, not only for the oppressors, but also for the oppressed who, like Niyi Osundare’s Poem – Not My Business – have continued to showcase an ugly silence because the oppressors have not come to their doorsteps (in particular) to take the yam from their mouth.

Apostle Johnson Suleman

Apostle Suleman, in his 2017 prophesy said and I quote, ‘In 2017, Christians will be oppressed.’ Perhaps, he knew beforehand that the oppression would begin from his threshold. There has been hideous oppression of Christians lately, and it has been glaring for the eyes to see and ears to hear, yet no one says anything because we are scared of the DSS; we are scared losing our breaths, even while we know we are rotting away like cadavers torn open by the vultures. Instead of mourn for a country that has died, we still upload photos and videos of us smiling because we have not been touched yet: only your neighbour was slaughtered by Fulani Herdsmen; God won’t let it get to you! We do not upload scaring pictures of mass burials (people slaughtered in cold blood in their sleep) and weep in our statuses that in spite of this goring homicide, no one has been apprehended, as if our security has become inactive all together.

Our pastors still preach prosperity on alters on Sundays and dance to much applause while many Christians in Southern Kaduna are being slaughtered for no cause. No word would be said to show condolence or to condemn the perpetrators for fear of been interrogated by the DSS. 

As scarce as it may seem, there stood a courageous man – Apostle Suleiman – who despite his office as a clergyman, veiled his eyes to speak for the oppress when there was nobody to speak. In a sermon to his flocks (seeing that the APC-led Federal Government has kept mute in the face of this heinous crisis) he told them to defend themselves against any attack by Fulani herdsmen. It was this very sincere pronunciation of self-defence that the Presidency (or rather, the DSS) saw as a statement capable of instigating the nation into war.

Is Apostle Suleiman’s statement more heinous than the cold blood killings in Agatu and Southern Kaduna, which until now have been denied the revenge they deserve by the federal government they paid allegiance to? Is Apostle Suleiman’s statement more inciting than the recent destruction of churches by the Jigawa Sate Government? Is his statement of Self-defence more annoying than the decision Governor El Rufai took when Fulani Herdsmen began to invade Southern Kaduna? The ‘sage’ of a Governor thought it wise to take Nigeria’s hard-earned money to neighbouring countries not as strong as Nigeria in terms of army, to beg the Fulanis there not to attack the citizens of his state again. DSS was without ears when he said this.

Let us be plain with ourselves: the Country has been divided along political, ethnic and religious lines. These lines have been made deeper in recent times and it is not helping matters. Those holding power oppress those without. And those without harbour dire hatred and plan a payback. Oppression has become so rife; gradually, we ebb towards military regime of our recent past.

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Those Who Say Nigeria is One Are the Country's Greatest Enemies

The Nigerian structure has failed no doubt, since 1960, or perhaps even beyond, stretching as far as the year of her Amalgamation - 1914. The systems are moribund, with mechanisms which will not only ruin our existence (as it did our forebears) but also rain havoc on generations yet on born. In fact, ours is already a failed generation: with the generation of lazy youths with lying tongues and bodies yearning for swindling and sundry corrupt practices. Nowadays, our youths criticize and curse on social media only, while they relax at home to bear the fact that our light flickers like dico light; bear the fact that there are no job vacancies, and when they apply for menial jobs, the company they work for (that thinks it is doing them a favour by employing them) either oppresses them by forcing them to do task not within the tenets of their jobs, or cuts their salary for flimsy reasons, yet the crazy youths feel obliged to keep a foolish calm because they fear of loosing their jobs.

To be fair, Nigeria won't move forward an inch in a million years to come. Rather, it would retrogress, as it has done consistently for the last century. The fact being that, there are too many nations inside this broken country, that demand their own separate existences in order for peace to reign, which in turn would pave the way for meaningful development in such localities. Presently, these many nations which constitute this incongruous country harbour great hatred against themselves, that they distrust each other, and for many years to come, this hatred may not be wiped out, and thus cannot plan.

The question now is, why do we continuously pretend that we are united than disunited, while future lives already smell of jeopardy? Let us shield our eyes to say the truth: Nigeria's existence should be peacefully reconsidered to save future lives from crumbling, as those of our generation had. The power in the centre is too enormous for a multinational state like Nigeria. Individual nations/tribes/regions/state inside Nigeria should be allowed to cater for themselves, have their own structures, control their own laws that govern themselves independent of each other, employ their own people, etc. Thereafter, a weak Central Government (which shall be the head of a con-federal system of government) could be supported by individual nations for the upkeep of a common military base.

Nigeria is not growing. Rather, it is fast falling like one of the heavenly bodies from space. The wave of its speedy fall is the one yet causing us discomfort. We should do all we can within rational context to keep it from crashing completely, because when it falls, there won't be a second life at shattering. Whoever, in this modern Nigeria, scolds you when you speak about restructuring, and even labels you as 'tribalistic' for baring your mind, is being hypocritical. He is one of those feeding on the maggots which come out from the rotting Nigeria, leaving the masses to bear the smell while listening to the cry of their stomachs.


Nigeria's current system has failed woefully. It is high time, we searched thoroughly for another way out of this dangerous woods, to save posterity, from experiencing what we and our forebears experienced.

Thank you.

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Affections Lost: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

Come my beloved, come!
Don't move farther off, 
Your closeness strengthens my limbs.
Come to me, to my arms,
To crush the grey of my chest
With your tender bosom
Like the juicest pawpaw in the garden.
February has brought its  arid wind, 
And has placed fruits on every cashew tree.
Or, is this not February - 
The month of our love?
Oh, I doubt!
For at this time in the dim past,
We held on to each other, warming 
Ourselves in the sprawling meadows,
Smiling, our cheeks soft,
Our lips chatting in love language.

Or did our love fall?
Tell me! Do not let my ears shrink.
Save heavens, all things fall, 
Love inclusive, and what palls love.
So tell me, my tears, I'll hold,
Tell me why your face
Has become so costly,
Not even a million pearls can buy,
Tell me, why for many moonnights,
My aging hands longed
For your sheen, your soft skin,
But were left desolate.

Is it age that dispels you?
Speak at once!
Nobody's eavesdropping.
The earth is still
And the world's shut behind us.
Every being ages but God,
And for love,
A score soon becomes a decade. 

Remember those bright years,
Those days when we spoke
Not with our voices,
But ours hearts, our emotions.
Remember those years,
When the rains 
Left the fields green
For us to roll on,
Remember when our chuckles
Startled the little birds,
Whistling on swaying leaves,
On the straws of dancing grasses,
When the fading sun
Held its last smile to the world
While night ravaged from the east.

And remember my love,
When the night spread
Its black hue abroad,
Over our loft, over our love,
We became a whole,
Our warmth dissolving darkness,
Our closeness chasing away fear
Until the full moon 
Shone, brilliantly and alluringly
Over the terrace of our love -
Where we bathed in dry sands,
Churned ourselves upon the cool earth,
Our smiles, our light.

But those nights when the sky
Housed no moon, the world
Swallowed in its shadow,
We pressed against ourselves,
On my bedstead,
On our love's den,
Our warm embrace melting 
The night until the dawn crooners
Brought us hope of a forming dawn.

So move not away from me.
Drift not away from me
More than a foot length,
So I reach out to cuddle you,
Your lips glued to mine,
Our hearts speaking with waves
While our eyes interprete.
Do not mind age,
It's a ruse
Nature imposes to falter love.
But you by my side,
Though nature rules at last,
We shall struggle with it
Until our backs lay against
Our vaults, our eternal beds.

So come to me beloved, 
Come seek home in my arms,
My bedstead still bears
The sweet smell of your soothing tan.

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Rare Beauty: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

What kind of poetry
Can unmask the
Mystery behind 
Your rare beauty?

What design of words,
No matter how soothing,
Can paint how oval
Like almond fruit,
Your eyes are?
How stiff like frozen fish,
I feel when those charming eyes
Dazzle at me
As the butterfly flaps its wings?

The truth is,
No art work can fully
Depict the warmth and tenderness
Which embrace your hands
And how tempting
Your bare lips stare at me to kiss.

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Do not stand at my grave and weep: Poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye

Do not stand at my grave and weep 
I am not there. I do not sleep. 
I am a thousand winds that blow. 
I am the diamond glints on snow. 
I am the sunlight on ripened grain. 
I am the gentle autumn rain. 
When you awaken in the morning's hush 
I am the swift uplifting rush 
Of quiet birds in circled flight. 
I am the soft stars that shine at night. 
Do not stand at my grave and cry; 

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Brother Don't You See?: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

Brother don't you see?
Don't you see ours is
The relationship of the
Broods around a hen;
When maturity whispers to the broods
And the hen chases them away,
A dank undulation 
Troubles their togetherness.

Hear me now Brother,
We're but broods around a hen;
Although we sucked at the same breasts
And our umbilical cords
Share the same grave
Beneath the coconut tree,
Someday, we shall go
Our separate ways
When the sun - this very sun
That holds us together fades.

Brother! Brother now I ask,
Why does your whip still
Spite my innocent flesh?
Why? Brother why?
Can't you see the sun
Diminishing into a dull crescent?
Let me feel the warmth of your arms
Over my wane shoulders;
Now is the time;
Brother, now is the time.   

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The Farmhouse (Short Description): Ohikhuare Isuku

In the evening, the sun set behind the Farmhouse. In between the cluster of tall palm trees, the bright yellow soup formed against the western sky – the weak rays of the evening sun scattered abroad, penetrating feebly, the dark clouds that wedged it, as if preventing it not to fall into its western valley of rest. The palm trees were not far from the Farmhouse; they lined almost horizontally inside the small bush which began from the edge of the drainage. Because the palm trees were closed by, waving ebulliently against the evening sky, and because they tended to bring the sky closer upon which the evening sun perched, it seemed to my reasoning, that the horizon which swallowed the sun was perhaps few steps away from the Farmhouse.

The Farmhouse itself was neither large nor magnificent in sight. It was a block (just newly built) where the workers relaxed during afternoon break. It had five rooms; three of which looked straight (beyond the narrow veranda, beyond the three pillars arranged horizontally at the edge of the veranda, beyond the bush which spread across) towards the cluster of palm trees lined horizontally against the eastern horizon. The two remaining rooms stood at either side of the block – their length extending beyond that of the other rooms, terminating at the edge of the veranda. While the doors of the three rooms gazed at the eastern sky, that of the two remaining rooms faced each other, the lengthy veranda separating them.

The Farmhouse was cemented but not painted. It was sealed and had wooden doors and windows without lockers. It stood alone far away from other farmhouses, like a solitary tree. It had no electricity yet, so snakes and frogs glided around the woods which surrounded it. The cluster of palm trees eastward was a little farther than that behind. This made it seem to me that the eastern horizon was farther from me than the western horizon. By the right hand side of the house, there were the bamboo trees, growing from a common source, so that they formed a dense relationship which is frightfully dark at night. Weaver-birds nested on the tiny branches of the bamboo trees, where they had picked off the straw-leaves, leaving them naked and brown. The nests were oval, built upside down to prevent discomfort during the rain, I thought. I had wondered one evening how intelligent these little birds were.

In the morning and late evening, they twittered around the cluster of bamboo trees – their chirps like shrills of night insect. One evening, when the sun had properly set, when grey spread uniformly across the sky, I saw a hawk perch on a slender branch of the bamboo rest. Its look was leering, and it appeared great compared to the tiny weaver birds which had maintained silence because of the presence of a predator. Then, one by one, the predator flew upside down to check if there were preys inside the nests. I watched this scene from inside my lodge, reclined on the window. The weaver-birds scattered as the great bird approached. Not long, the great bird flew off disappointed without a catch. It flew towards the palm trees eastward which shielded the busy expressway. 

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Why Intelligent People May Find It Difficult With Romantic Relationship

Marriage institution may have been invented to limit man’s intellectual achievement; to pin him down with such irksome burden so as to disregard the taunting urge to seek for knowledge and truth: an occupation which his very nature is allured to. But I must immediately admit here that there are innumerable advantages marriage broods, such as the breeding of children to boost human population, and then a medication to heal man’s undying quest for socialization and sex.

There are however as numerous disadvantages as there are advantages. But this discourse shall be restricted to one very disadvantage of marriage which is so insidious that it is only detected by those with keen eyes. This one disadvantage – which appears invisible – is Intellectual Degradation. It behoves the reader to know that, great intellectuals, who embellished history with their ebullient deeds seldom ever got happiness in their marital or social lives. This is not because they willed this to be, or because they added an additional feather of fame to their cap by living a solitary life devoid of the warmth of marital bliss. They too felt sad and sullen, seeing their marriages crumble due to reckless handling of its structure which had been made wonky by inconsistencies and the unforgiving bartering of commitments. This occurs because Intellectual Capability is like a woman, and marrying it (which those indulged in it are most likely to do) is like bringing in a second wife into a home. Since both have jealousy tendency, they certainly would wrestle over time; the stronger (often the wife) pushing away the weaker one.

In terms of commitment, relationship is burdensome, in the sense that it requires quality time to remain quite active and strong. For a marriage to be a bit of a success, the partners must not lag in communication and intimacy. This also applies to Intellectual Capability. For you to do great things and cause history to be hollow when your moving intellectual achievements are subtracted from its bowel, you have to first have an unstoppable love for intellectual dealings, spend many hours studying, quite dedicated to seeking for knowledge between lines and pages of books, spend a quality time thinking about the world and what knowledge you desire to affect the world with; lastly, search for a cheap and reliable way to get this knowledge out either through public lecture or writing, so it could be adopted by those who fancy it. These must be followed piously; else, there would be a crack somewhere.

Now, combining intense intellectual dedication and marital bliss is somehow a nightmare. A married man cannot shut himself up in his study for a whole day, without expecting his wife to knock on that door to inquire if she had offended him in anyway. Likewise, you cannot keep your wife company all day, without you thinking there is work to do in the study room, if you are so dedicated to book-life. You find it difficult to type a text and give a call when you are engrossed with seeking knowledge; the same way, you feel lassitude towards reading when someone you are madly in love with is around you. You see, it is always difficult to maintain fulfilling romantic relationship and a life of great intellectual capability side by side. Although, some very few balance this, but not to greater resonance as those who choose to go by one.

Ohikhuare Isuku

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Oppression of Womenfolk in the Society: is it a Divine Will?

I wrote this article as a feminist due to the glaring rights deprived the female folks which many including the females themselves are veiled from seeing. Before I begin the sail, let me quickly proclaim that my intention for baring the unseen is far from instigating rebellion in the female folks or infringing upon some blessed ways or kneading the already placid human relationship until it becomes ruffled. Rather, I put forth my thoughts into writing based on my brainstorming and events which have been unfolding before me since I became conscious of my existence.

I should start with the discourse of the plights faced by the girl child who has above all borne the cruellest brunt of gender mainstream. In most parts of the world especially the developing countries, a girl child is often treated more or less like a slave as compared to her male counterparts; she is considered a builder of an alien family rather than hers, so that as a consequence, she is deprived some opportunities which the boys get. As early as her breasts are seen, she's pushed down slippery matrimonial slope with little or no formal education.

It is shrewd to say that this issue of gender inequality didn't start in our age; it dates back to the days of yore. In fact, it was more appalling in those days. Not until recently, women were barred on the political stage; they were denied access to communal lands. A woman without a spouse was scorned till death, even by fellow women. Very often, women tilled the land while the men got the plaudits: this I prove with Achebe's magnus opus - Things Fall Apart as my guild: the man cleared the forest, felled trees, planted yams and staked the young tendrils while the women weeded the yam farm amid catering for their own cocoyam and cassava farms. But in the end, Okonkwo - the hero won all the accolades as a successful farmer.

The society in general has done apparently nothing to arrest the insidious issue of gender discrimination. Often times, the topic is swept to the dustbin as it's considered flippant. Most circumstances, when the word 'man' flips into a statement, it has positive meaning, whereas the reverse is the case when the word 'woman' appears. For instance, even mothers tease their lazy male children, 'you are a man, and hence stop behaving like a woman.' or 'why are you gossiping like women?'

This leads us into the issue of politics as affected by gender inequality. Over the years in the political atmosphere, women have been kept at bay. This is not unconnected with gender mainstream. Up till date, only few women have been able to climb the ladder to become leaders of their countries and kingdoms; a very alarming case begging for attention. It is worthy of note that in the 2011 presidential election in Nigeria, a woman ran for the PDP primaries, but had only one vote, and that was from herself. There were delegates who were women in that congregation. In some cultures, women are barred from choosing their leaders by virtue of voting - an infringement upon a very important fundamental right of vote and be voted for.

The viper called gender inequality has also sprawled its dank and venom-coated flesh to some vital social recesses of feminine life: a married woman must not stay out late, else tongues would be wagging, indicting her as promiscuous. Her husband could be pardoned for such offence. A man can marry as many wives as he can under one roof. But a woman who tries the 'taboo' is set for perdition. What inequality!

One could point out that women are at advantage during the war because they are not selected as warriors to brawl. But it is faintly true. Although men go to war and suffer severely, women are nowhere near better life during and even after the war. During the war, they are at home living and catering for their kids with fear and heavy heart. And sometimes when their territories are raided, they suffer rape and even death. After the war, those who have become widows become bread-winners for their families - a rather hideous job owing to societal discrimination and their physiological disadvantage.

Conclusively, a most irritating and obfuscating aspect of all is that nature in some way is in support of feminine oppression: at forty when most men are still sexually active, most women experience menopause.

This and others rolled in one leave me agape and forge a big question in my mind - question rhetorical as well as philosophical - oppression of women in the society: is it a divine will?

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If You Forget Me: Poem by Pablo Neruda

I want you to know
one thing.

You know how this is:
if I look
at the crystal moon, at the red branch
of the slow autumn at my window,
if I touch
near the fire
the impalpable ash
or the wrinkled body of the log,
everything carries me to you,
as if everything that exists,
aromas, light, metals,
were little boats
that sail
toward those isles of yours that wait for me.

Well, now,
if little by little you stop loving me
I shall stop loving you little by little.

If suddenly
you forget me
do not look for me,
for I shall already have forgotten you.

If you think it long and mad,
the wind of banners
that passes through my life,
and you decide
to leave me at the shore
of the heart where I have roots,
remember
that on that day,
at that hour,
I shall lift my arms
and my roots will set off
to seek another land.

But
if each day,
each hour,
you feel that you are destined for me
with implacable sweetness,
if each day a flower
climbs up to your lips to seek me,
ah my love, ah my own,
in me all that fire is repeated,
in me nothing is extinguished or forgotten,
my love feeds on your love, beloved,
and as long as you live it will be in your arms
without leaving mine. 

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To His Coy Mistress: Poem by Andrew Marvell

-

Had we but world enough and time, 

This coyness, lady, were no crime. 

We would sit down, and think which way 

To walk, and pass our long love’s day. 

Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side 

Shouldst rubies find; I by the tide 

Of Humber would complain. I would 

Love you ten years before the flood, 

And you should, if you please, refuse 

Till the conversion of the Jews. 

My vegetable love should grow 

Vaster than empires and more slow; 

An hundred years should go to praise 

Thine eyes, and on thy forehead gaze; 

Two hundred to adore each breast, 

But thirty thousand to the rest; 

An age at least to every part, 

And the last age should show your heart. 

For, lady, you deserve this state, 

Nor would I love at lower rate. 

       But at my back I always hear 

Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near; 

And yonder all before us lie 

Deserts of vast eternity. 

Thy beauty shall no more be found; 

Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound 

My echoing song; then worms shall try 

That long-preserved virginity, 

And your quaint honour turn to dust, 

And into ashes all my lust; 

The grave’s a fine and private place, 

But none, I think, do there embrace. 

       Now therefore, while the youthful hue 

Sits on thy skin like morning dew, 

And while thy willing soul transpires 

At every pore with instant fires, 

Now let us sport us while we may, 

And now, like amorous birds of prey, 

Rather at once our time devour 

Than languish in his slow-chapped power. 

Let us roll all our strength and all 

Our sweetness up into one ball, 

And tear our pleasures with rough strife 

Through the iron gates of life: 

Thus, though we cannot make our sun 

Stand still, yet we will make him run.

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How Diversity in Language Has Destroyed Nigeria

About a year ago at the Lekki area of Lagos, Nigeria, while on a Yuletide visit to an Uncle who lives there, I had met a man – my host’s old acquaintance (for I could tell from the dialect they spoke)– who had visited with his Journalist wife of slim built and two chubby-looking children who appeared good and tender by all standard. One of the girls was perhaps four (the older one), while the other was a lovely toddler who drew irregular lines on my books when she wandered into my room.

One bright morning (for we had both come the previous night), while eating in the dining section, the man – middle-aged – had said to his wife, ‘Look at our children, they can’t even speak a Nigerian language. They only speak English.’ I saw frustration brewed in his brows, as if it were his one singular problem in the world. So while his wife defended herself that she could not speak the man’s dialect to the children because she did not know how to speak it, and while the man replied still with the same gloominess, that he didn’t care whether his children spoke his language or that of his wife; all he cared about was for them to master a Nigerian language, I was deeply engrossed in the discourse and thus tore off my reticence to dare give my thought. My voice was deep, devoid of the faintest coat of nervousness when I spoke:

‘Sir, diversity in language in developing country like Nigeria is a nuisance rather than a blessing.’ Said I. Then I saw a sudden glimpse of exasperation smeared over his face, which dissolved abruptly into something like pity (either for my disposition or for himself). But, this faded, replaced by a somewhat pitiful smile, when I added with the same confidence: ‘You know in this country, if one can find someone who can speak his tongue, he becomes so carried away that he can trade competency for familiarity. I am afraid, but I must say, one language is enough for Nigeria.’ The man nodded in consent either in admiration or to put an end to the topic (I couldn’t then tell from his countenance).

I have recalled this scenario in the beginning because it is quite pertinent I do. Before that morning, I had had no distaste for language diversity, and if I did, it was buried somewhere in my philosophical mind, so deep that I could not reach easily to get hold of it. Moreover, I had said what I said that morning to defend the woman; to make the worry all writ on the man’s faced disappear. But since that day, I began to think deep into this grave subject, weighing, with the same scale, the advantages and disadvantages, and discovered the later by far outweigh the former.

Language is powerful with respect to unity, or else the biblical Tower of Babel, would not have been foiled. And this wouldn’t have caused me any trouble, if my very close friend, while lamenting the mess Nigeria had yet been found, confided in me that studying countries with language and religious complexities around the world, he was able to find out that a common string binds them all – retrogression! Then he went on to tell me that majority (if not all the world powers) have common languages they speak in their countries; there was not as much diversity in language and religion as evident in Nigeria. I grappled on the ugly truth and at once felt soporific.

Yet, I wouldn’t have thought of a blog post as this – I would have ignored how language keeps segmenting Nigeria into a weak structure (keeping the youths at bay), while greedy politicians feed on the ruins without being noticed, because of the nightmarish effect of tribalism (a direct offspring of different languages) – if not that one of my friends had but last night given his own sad tale of how language had wounded him. According to him, he had taken a close friend – an Igbo boy – to a market in Lagos because he wanted to buy something. Unknowing to his friend that he could understand his language, his friend was communicating with the Igbo seller (who he did not know) on how best to extort him in the bargain. The results were breach of trust and hatred for language.

Filled with this thought, today, while some people spoke Yoruba very close to me, I became irritated by it, but I felt superiority over them because I spoke perfect English their tongues verily lacked. When they pointed to me that I was missing something nice as if they were devouring honey (because I couldn’t understand their tongue), I asked (in sarcasm) if they understood my dialect. Afterwards, I gave them a stern lecture why it may never cross my mind to speak any more language save the ones I know now. 

Ohikhuare Isuku

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I Am Not Humble: Poem by Ohikhuare Isuku

I am not humble, though
shyness may be my demeanor.
I can not be humble;
Humbleness is a virtue,
Only for the downtrodden,
Only for those whose heads
Are trampled upon by booths.

If you do not greet the elderly
In the morning,
You are not humble,
If you do not fall flat,
To wipe off the dust
From the rich man's shoes
With your tongue,
You are rude...

If you keep your speech stiff,
And do not cower,
In protesting against
Injustice against the poor,
You are rude, not humble at all.

I thus desire rudeness,
Detest the foolishness of humility,
For your feet can't
Find a flat land on my head

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A Hundred And Forty- Four Will Make Heaven? Intriguing!

For the last few days, my wing of friendship has hovered in this new place of adornment, this quiet settlement buried in the heart of the forest, and somehow it has found rest. It has found a balanced platform, where it can ruffle its plume of philosophical feathers, and still not waver off.

Often times in my friendship search, I scout those whom my philosophical questions would not prick, or who would not look at me in dismay when I ask, 'how sure are you about the virility of the bible?'. I am philosophical in my thoughts and speaking, and thus I have quite a large heart for inquisitiveness. I ask questions because it is from the crumbs of answers I get, I use to embellish my scholarly reserve.

I have met this wonderful fellow lately (a Jehovah Witness) who has received my philosophical questioning with lightness of heart and without the faintest shrink induced  on his face for want of courage to discuss something so 'blasphemous' about something celestial, so high above human knowledge and questioning. Our discussions have thus progressed for some days past now into something of a cognac so irrepressible, so true.

Few days ago (the day he told me he was Jehovah witness), he told me that in his Faith, it was believed that only one hundred and forty-four thousand would make heaven. I smiled peacefully at him, because I had heard this before from many of their Awake magazines which they assiduously share from door to door. After he had laid down his piece, I said to him, 'who are these one hundred and forty-four thousand?' And he replied - the Jews.

'Why?' I cried.

'They were chosen by God.' He replied.

'Does that mean I won't be counted among because I am not a Jew?'

The young man then heaved. I noticed his face was placid, and his lips were numbed as if dipped into a pail of ice. Seeing this initial vantage of mine, I struck again calmly and with beauteous balance: 'If Yoruba were so civilized enough long ago when the Jews did, if they could develop their own language six thousand years before and being able to write down the history of their creation, if a great teacher like Jesus was a Yoruba by birth and his preaching had been carried by the Roman Empire  and spread across the universe, God now would have been called Olorun all over the world and Yoruba people would have been regarded as the selected for the kingdom of God - those who are special. So don't raise one race above the other because history favoured them.'

My new Yoruba friend, nodding his head to consent, said, 'You are right.'

I cherished his frankness.

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The Kitchen: Poem by Warsan Shire

Half a papaya and a palmful of oil;
   lately your husband’s mind has been elsewhere.

Honeyed dates, goat’s milk;
   you want to quiet the bloating of salt.

Coconut and ghee butter;
   he kisses the back of your neck at the stove.

Cayenne and roasted pine nuts;
   you offer him the hollow of your throat.

Saffron and rosemary;
   you don’t ask him her name.

Vine leaves and olives;
   you let him lift you by the waist.

Cinnamon and tamarind;
   lay you down on the kitchen counter.

Almond soaked in rose water;
   your husband is hungry.

Sweet mango and sugared lemon;
   he had forgotten the way you taste.

Sour dough and cumin;
   but it cannot make him eat, like you.

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Nightfall in Soweto: Poem by Oswald Mbuyiseni Mtshali

NIGHTFALL IN SOWETO
Nightfall comes like
a dreaded disease
seeping through the pores
of a healthy body
and ravaging it beyond repair

A murderer’s hand,
lurking in the shadows,
clasping the dagger,
strikes down the helpless victim.

I am the victim.

I am slaughtered
every night in the streets.
I am cornered by the fear
gnawing at my timid heart;
in my helplessness I languish.

Man has ceased to be man
Man has become beast
Man has become prey.

I am the prey;
I am the quarry to be run down
by the marauding beast
let loose by cruel nightfall
from his cage of death.

Where is my refuge?
Where am I safe?
Not in my matchbox house
Where I barricade myself against nightfall.

I tremble at his crunching footsteps,
I quake at his deafening knock at the door.
“Open up!” he barks like a rabid dog
thirsty for my blood.

Nightfall! Nightfall!
You are my mortal enemy.
But why were you ever created?
Why can’t it be daytime?
Daytime forever more?

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I Will Pronounce Your Name: Poem by Leopold Senghor

I will pronounce your name, Naett, I will declaim you, Naett!
Naett, your name is mild like cinnamon, it is the fragrance in which the lemon grove sleeps
Naett, your name is the sugared clarity of blooming coffee trees
And it resembles the savannah, that blossoms forth under the masculine ardour of the midday sun
Name of dew, fresher than shadows of tamarind,
Fresher even than the short dusk, when the heat of the day is silenced,
Naett, that is the dry tornado, the hard clap of lightning
Naett, coin of gold, shining coal, you my night, my sun!…
I am your hero, and now I have become your sorcerer, in order to pronounce your names.
Princess of Elissa, banished from Futa on the fateful day.

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