[tabs tab1=”Poem” tab2=”Poet Bio”]
Grandmother, how do I tell a
murderous act with a heart
more evil than that of Lady
without the whimpering
soul of a Duncan?
What Tiresias can interpret the
mysteries in his palm?
That in the Congo, under
dark liberty will sprout forth our true
shining black prince.
In our young prince’s palace newly
birthed from the cauldron of colonialism, under blood and
years of gross green exploitation—
a most brutal play was staged with three international actors in
the lead roles.
After precise practice in the closed
doors of Brussels and Washington
(we should not forget the
concoction brought by United
our stage is un-patriotically
designed by local usurpers as stage
The chorus leader’s song rose to
a picturesque frenzy and
on that fateful day mortals bullets
buried themselves deep in him.
Hatred and fear in the cloaks of an African Castro spread over his
enemies like a sweet smelling fragrance.
Maybe he was a
cursed heir—you know the kind
that came in the swift darkness
and leaves us with the
dews of clueless coronation. I don’t know.
BUT THIS WE KNOW FOR SURE…
Proud as an African prince he
refused to bow to the
condescending conundrum of colonialism.
Courageous as an ancestral
warrior, he defied to ride on the
spineless back of neocolonialism.
And on the last day the Lord
“Mobutu, where is thy sting?
Baudouin where is thy victory?”
And all the people will answer
in one accord, “Patrice still runs in our veins!”
(For Patrice Emery Lumumba who fought a good fight in the Congo).[/tab]
Othuke is a budding writer. He writes from a mud house in Nigeria.[/tab]