Dream As Reality

              Dream As Reality
              by George Amadi

I'm in my grand-mother's yam barn,
starry-eyed, wondering how she keeps
thieves at bay with a time-worn broom
hanging as an oddity from a sherry tree
one hundred years old, when out of
it fell a goat-thief, his intentions spitting.

Clutching the magic tool, to work, then,
went he, sweeping dead leaves out,
sweating out a storm, yet, returning to
start the energy-sapping chore afresh
until he dropped dead or so I thought.

A native doctor to the rescue came,
driving evil spirits out of the crook,
warning that time was running out,
and his perdition was one sin away.

Fifty years on, grand-mommy's village,
now crawling with criminals, toward
reversing the trend hasn't got a clue;
yet, all around, armed security agents
abound, not forgetting opulent courts.

When illusions, even if fragmentary,
allow hallucinations to trade places
with facts, making dreams seem like
reality, how hazardous mind's plight
as think-tank can, in no time, become.

Lagos, Oct. 16, 2012

Top Dog's Trail

                     Top Dog's Trail
                     by George Amadi

Captain Adarema red crust scoops,
little knowing unseen eyes stared;
Martians, fascinated by huge boobs,
nothing have that sexy ever bared.

Nkita's frosty nose at trouble hints,
Man's best friend groping on stilts,
couldn't help but be ill on red planet,
alien to a foot-loose dog's dragnet.

Metal bones yummy seen from afar
but up close, really weren't crunchy,
this, in turn, Major Ibe made grumpy,
he who had space-ship's door left ajar.

Cold a trio sent back in, heat hunting;
all Control Tower could do was wait.
Soon, reddened sun doubled as bait,
an expedition crew prying, taunting.

Mother ship, expected much sooner
late arrived, said one calendar lunar.
Back in Owere, lofty ideas take wings,
'Imoh Space' a new expedition strings.

Lagos
Oct. 13, 2012

Dropout's Invitation

Dropout’s Invitation

By George Amadi

Buffeted by a dingy bar and a run-down building,

Hair-dressing salon, in one disused container set,

Not a few gals of appearance conscious, attracts;

Unwise men nearby quaffing beer, object of focus.

Owned by pretty teenager with low-cropped hair,

She, struggling high-school dropout, pulls a crowd;

Without fail, every Friday to the bank goes smiling,

Toward future growth, a small fortune puts aside.

Many among her peers from a sordid past still roam

The streets, flimsy excuses giving for their flirtations

Although, she to one and all job offer letters sends,

None invited with arduous work intends to grapple.

Lagos, August 30, 2014

Last meal

Last Meal

By George Amadi

Squatting, in unqualified awe of a nearby Iroko tree,

Exhausted, as a result of a long, fruitless outing,

Our cooking fire crackling, now and then,

Lighting up the sky of a village in the jungle,

Cocooned by impregnable darkness,

Crickets bamboo grey, a handful,

Giant praying mantis, a score or so,

Half-dozen grass-hoppers khaki brown

Roasted in the company of Tilapia fish,

Fleshy mushrooms, a trio, all chopped up,

Crowded out by sliced Ugba,

African castor-oil bean, in dried pepper decked,

Garnished with a dash of red palm-oil, by a

Sprinkling of salt for taste topped,

Washed down with frothy palm-wine,

Nutritious, if drunk before noon,

My grand-mother and I, ravaged by hunger,

Unbeknownst to me, our last meal together,

Two months before she passed on,

An unusual dinner, gobbled,

Upon returning empty-handed

From snail-hunting

One dry-season night in Fifty-Six

Lagos, June 3, 2014

A Village Morning

                A Village Morning

                By George Amadi

Early risers, who a foot-path thronged

Whilst the stars up above still twinkled,

Jungle creatures still asleep alas, roused!

Armed with varying sizes of containers,

Villagers to a distant water-hole rushed.

Oh, how sweet it was, life in the village

Back in the day, when male and female,

Young and old, on the way, bowels let go;

Their behinds with corn-cobs tidied up,

In gender-segmented pools then, bathed!

Females chattering, or love songs singing,

Their ebony-black bodies scrubbed clean.

Men, out Tilapia fish, one or two, to catch,

Their utmost with a cast net did in silence.

After lovers sweet nothings said and did,

To clean water-hole wended one and all.

With wet clothes placed on one shoulder,

On everyone’s head sat a water-calabash.

Lagos, 2014-02-23  

Night Hunters

Night Hunters

By George Amadi

Nightfall’s deafening downpour

Away from view crept

In its wake wet lowland left;

From a drunken highland

Overflowing clay fluid,

Torrent after torrent,

A fertile, verdant

Forest valley

Hammered

Distant moon’s light blazing,

Homeward headed,

Resplendent, through

A shining path sprinted,

Its glare tired

Yam farmers

From sleep roused

But to nocturnal  

Snail-hunters

Huge success

Heralded

Roasted yam’s appetizing

Aroma the breezy air filled;

The grub, an old man

Watching over things

Nibbled; a sumptuous

Helping of six

Peppered snails

By starry-eyed maidens

Grilled and

Presently, to the hungry

Elder’s way will be

Destined,

As well as a gift

Of frothy palm-wine

At day-break

Fetched

In tandem, driven long

Pestles

Hefty, boiled yams

In no hurry pounded,

Thanks to three stout

Women, to each,  

A giant mortar assigned.

Ensuring a simmering oha soup,

A mouth-watering,

Igbo delicacy,

Didn’t boil over,

An amiable grand-mother,

For her inimitable

Recipes known,

The lid of a clay pot

On fire, from time to time,

Lifted, and precious

Contents stirred.

Lagos, April 28, 2013