Poetry for the times, courtesy Wale and K.Dot

One from me, another by Kendrick Lamar

I remember resuming at university six years ago on a Sunday like this. I was 15 years, 361 days, just on the cusp of turning 16. And I was free from home, having all these dreams and goals that can only be specific to someone about to clock year 16, living so far away from home. I wanted to see the world irrespective of how it happened, I wanted to write as many truthful things as I could, I wanted to make something of this life I was handed, I wanted to laugh with girls till late at night, I wanted it all. Years later, I’ve achieved some of my dreams, I have not achieved some of them, such is the tempestuous nature life; but I am here.

Unfortunately, another 16-year-old, six years later, will never get the chance to know what comes of her dreams because of a bloodthirsty policeman. Tina Ezekwe’s life was ended by a bullet fired by a murderous Nigerian policeman on Thursday, it is hard to feel any other thing but rage at this moment because I always think about the full range of humanity; and all I can think of is wastage, of life, potential, of joy. It’s all there. There is a magnificent essay on The Question Marker titled “Why is everything in Nigeria designed to kill us?” and it talks about how everything in Nigeria is seemingly set up to squander something from you, take without giving, and ultimately end in Nigerian death. It is a hard life. We await justice, however hollow it will feel, for Tina Ezekwe.

Meanwhile, here’s a poem I wrote on the PoPo abusing their power that was supposed to be part of a larger collection of poems titled Isolationist, it is, as yet, untitled:

“outside Lagos — the plot thickens, it coalesces into a thick fog of fury that wakens the steeliness in us, roaring. youths, and silver-haired men, flood the streets with pitchforks and musty axes crusty at the prickly tips with the moldy dark of dried loamy soil like who fears death. we are singing a song of anger but I cannot hear the lyrics properly, all that registers is 'we are dying, we are being robbed, we will not allow ourselves be killed.' one woman just keeps shouting, 'my husband's ghost bothers me at night.' as we pour into the streets, I climb the bonnet of a car to look how many bodies march with us. we are legions. by all the Gods i know, we are tired.

one orator speaks with the vigour of a boundless dam: the words pouring out of him — one word followed by spittle, then both melding adroitly. 

the lockdown has been lifted, at least here, by the will of the commonwealth's people tired of the center leviathan that sleeps —and ignores our worries. we don't, or won't, see the fear in the eyes of the policemen who are vacating our grainy streets but screaming, with shaking voices, 'disperse to your homes or we will be forced to use force.' their english is broken, much like their spirits, i doubt their resoluteness. the sun, however, is a different proposition: it stings with punishing knowledge like a grim reaper's glare; felt, known and unavoidable. riotous music is rising all over again from the inertia of our mass collective, but a single face grabs me. and grabs me till i find myself walking towards that fey likeness.

somewhere in the crowd, at the exact moment i start to look at this face that will haunt me forever, two lovers hold hands feeling the richness of unity that only clasped warm hands can give. love is a beautiful thing.

a bullet rings through the air. and another and another. disperse now! this shooting turns into a grimy cacophony. our crowd starts to peel across open gutters and into side buildings that seemingly manifest out of thin air. wallahi, it is magic, magic i tell you. one lead protester, a giant cuddly man, mutters under his breath, this is how hope dies. perhaps it is, but i am looking for that wondrous tired face. i remember where i know him from now: i once gave him alms in the streets and he responded with a mocking bow, and the most beautiful smile ever.

in my periphery, a birdsong starts a mournful number. the half-notes of the tune speak of the nation that failed a boy. a nation that stripped him of his humanity. a nation built on millions of zeros, and highfalutin ideas, that saved not one scrubby note for him. this cruelty is nothing to us in this empire sitting off the atlantic; the tempo of the bird's chirps grows darker, recondite. and i am crying for this strange beggar boy who means so much to me. grief is a heavy burden to bear.”

I’ve been listening to Kendrick Lamar a lot this week. Because of George Floyd first, then because soon I might have to confront my blackhood, and later because of Tina. It is always something. Many times I’ve found myself mumbling “every nigga is a star” from “Wesley’s Theory,” adopted from Boris Gardiner, off To Pimp a Butterfly. It is such a powerful and affirmative line, especially for now. But there’s a more profound piece of poetry at the end of the 2015 L.P., on the closer, “Mortal Man,” Kendrick reads:

"The caterpillar is a prisoner to the streets that conceived it
Its only job is to eat or consume everything around it
In order to protect itself from this mad city
While consuming its environment
The caterpillar begins to notice ways to survive
One thing it noticed is how much the world shuns him
But praises the butterfly
The butterfly represents the talent
The thoughtfulness and the beauty within the caterpillar
But having a harsh outlook on life
The caterpillar sees the butterfly as weak
And figures out a way to pimp it to his own benefits
Already surrounded by this mad city
The caterpillar goes to work on the cocoon
Which institutionalizes him
He can no longer see past his own thoughts
He's trapped
When trapped inside these walls certain ideas take root, such as
Going home, and bringing back new concepts to this mad city
The result?
Wings begin to emerge, breaking the cycle of feeling stagnant
Finally free, the butterfly sheds light on situations
That the caterpillar never considered
Ending the internal struggle
Although the butterfly and caterpillar are completely different
They are one and the same"

These are crazy times, please stay safe, I’m thinking of you! Let me know what you make of the poems - W