₦airaland Forum

There was a Country
Once upon a time There was a country Ripe from chains And bound by unity Its sun shined In the day And the moon starred At night. The sky saw the earth And the earth the sky The man kept his words And his words him. It was a beauty A dream achieved A dream sustained A dream sustained? It lived to die Died never to live Strangled by black hands At the center of the black house. It was murdered Murdered by the few Who became more equal Than the rest of us. Harmony became a tense Of the past Parody became a prime For the arts. Beauty turned a new leaf The sky took a hike The sun, the moon, the rains Were given freewill. We try to revive the dream When we see the man First a saint then an ogre A friendly face then a robber. So it has been our plight Chained again By confidants and friends To meet selfish ends. Shall we wait For the coming of Godot? Is tomorrow, tomorrow Set to liberate Ilmorog? Hope is a farce A vanity.

Jude Uchella

Hope is Vanity?
But should man not love his vanity?
What shall barren hopelessness bear?
Yes, hope to you is the story of a man
Running in circles yet chasing an end
Life itself is a race towards nothing
How shall nothing race towards nothing
So I live on here and fill myself with hope
If these men would roll away their sky
I'd draw my firmament and put my own stars
And stare at them; avowing their beauty
When men refuse to keep their words
I'd take it from them and make it my duty
So that my hopes are mine
My expectations, from me
And my life, my duty
I am the green the world might never know
I am the colour the sky can't afford
I am Nigeria

-Arowoshola Oluwafemi (Firmhigh)

The first time I made love.





I had wanted to come..
A long time but..
The promise of time..
To fulfilment must come..
.




I finally arrived..
And I didn't like it..
Like in a strange world I felt..
And tears flowed freely from my eyes..
Throat, tummy, veins, ribs, lips..
Expanded at my willful cry.
But did I want to return?
I don't know.





.
The first time I made love..
It was at her breasts..
Milky juice flowing in warm swirls..
Into my tiny, toothless mouth..
She gave without holding back..
My satisfaction her mission be..





I drew from her warm, milky source..
My tiny mouth wrapped around her nipples..
A fulfilling vibration racked her body..
''This one is mine'', she said..
A look of love in her eyes.





Romance with her husband produced me..
She might not remember which one of the
many produced me..
But the lovemaking with me..
That first time we met..
She cannot forget..




#Nikolakris

A PANEGYRIC FOR WILLIAMS ALFRED

I have had occasion to peruse, with pleasure, the immortal panegyrics of writers of antiquity on their heroes and sovereigns; and my curiosity and admiration is not less excited by their copiousness of dexterity than their elegance of style and expression. When Plutarch indulges his wit and delineates in the most lively colours, Greek and Roman heroes, what engages the reader's attention is not only the matter(subject) but also his manner of composition. And also the heroes of Livy, Thucydides, Suetonius command our applause and admiration because these writers have laced their narratives, embellished their tales, and interspersed their depictions, with scrupulous concatenation of events in their lives, even acts deserving of censure. Today, taken a cue from those immortal men, I shall endeavour to form a reasonable opinion about our hero, Alfred, without (I need not emphasize it) affecting superiority of genius. My exordium, I think, is already verging to superfluous prolixity, I shall now proceed with precipitation, as I am impatient to engage the life of our hero.

Given my four years stint at the University of Lagos, I dare say that it would not be deemed presumptuous on my part to attempt a just delineation of the character of Alfred. The cognomen "Achebe" that has almost eclipsed my name amongst my contemporaries in Unilag was first begun by Alfred in second semester year one, during one of our conversations, when we were but imperfectly acquainted. This epithet, I believe, was just an ostentatious display of flattery, ostensibly, for the gratification of my vanity (for where in my person can one possibly reconcile the intellectual sagacity and colossal conspicuousness that is reminiscent of Achebe [the giant of African Literature] with the continual peregrination of an embattled scholar that I represent in a country buffeted by the vicissitude of events, engendered by rapacious leaders for the gratification of their avarice?). But enough of digressions, dialectics, and trifles! I return to my subject.

Nature has not been too unfair to Alfred. He is of an average height. He has a piercing eye, a nose between flatness and pointedness, an impairment in a tooth that readily shows when he smiles or laughs, a bow leg, sometimes a pitiable countenance that is commensurate with his melancholy disposition, seeming always to be imploring compassion (these trifling inclusions are [need I say?] important for perspicuity), among others.

Alfred is a universal scholar; his readings embrace every species of knowledge, human and divine. I have had the honour to engage him in metaphysical and speculative arguments; and as a philosopher and a freethinker, while I laboured with subtlety to confute and expose the futility of religion, he held his ground and tried to impress on me its salutary gains. Though we never gave in to each other's expostulations, and maintained like Grecian philosophers our demeanour, I must frankly confess that it was one of the most instructive arguments on speculative science I have ever engaged in. He is not one of those deluded disputants who mistake personal invectives for reasoning and clumsy banter for ingenuity. He carries a huge bag laden with books; and as I am averse to bag-carrying, I once teased him that not even the fear losing Heaven (a fear I entertain no scruples, being convinced that the only world I know of with certainty is, the Present, no matter how theologians and divines would indulge their fancy and imagination to paint in frightening colours the infernal darkness, and blissful felicity, of chimerical worlds) would make me carry the bag owing to its heaviness, he dispelled my apprehensions by reminding me that he goes about with those books as he often has occasion to consult them in the midst of arguments or to instruct his admirers, always eager for enlightenment.

I have expatiated with pleasure on Alfred's physical attributes; I shall now descant on his mental sagacity. Except, perhaps, Kuye, Tope, Taiwo, Saheed, Bunmi, and Dorcas, it is not, I think, taken undue advantage with possibility to say that Alfred was one of the most avid readers in English Class 2015. Without deigning to provide a variety of instances, I shall content myself with relating one example out of many which will suffice in my opinion; from which the reader will form a just judgment of his own. University of Lagos is an emporium of paradox; and while its students engage in various stupendous and magnificent display of entertainments and enjoyments, the most subtle philosopher would be amazed at the seriousness with which they read in times of examinations. It was after one of those examinations, I think, second semester year three, after many a midnight lucubration, I decided to go to the Faculty of Arts edifice at 8pm to "chill" with one of my girl friends. We had hardly approached room GO1, when I descried a figure sitting forlornly in the room, his head bent as if offering prayers to the Deity. Leaving my companion at the door, I surreptitiously approached the figure and alas! my guess was right; it was Alfred engrossed in the book he was reading, and devouring with voraciousness and incredibe avidity, as I later discovered, Achebe's "Morning Yet on Creation Day." The opinion I formed of him after that encounter was, I must candidly own, one of highest estimation and admiration.

Alfred is a writer, a singer, a dancer, and a poet (if we may degrade that sacred name). His prose and poetic works which I have had occasion to peruse, are not devoid or destitute of flatness or insipidity. Given his level of educational attainment, one may, however, be disposed to entertain a hope that his promising genius may one day rival the late Christopher Okigbo, which is why I fondly call him "Tennyson". I shall not dismiss this encomium until I have made one observation. Alfred, to the best of my knowledge, never got into trouble with any of our lecturers (except, on one occasion, when Prof. Daramola [but who escaped Prof Daramola's illiberal scurrilities?] menaced him with his harmless threats). Since it is not my intention to expatiate with minuteness on Alfred's profound erudition, which no reader of taste, I believe, will have occasion to cavil or inveigh against the prolixity of floridness, I shall still end the prosecution of my task here by observing, on the whole, that Alfred is an amiable person, a compelling personality, a man of genius, and, above all, a universal man. Happy birthday Alfred, blessings!


Edeh Johnson Ndubisi
Faculty of Arts
Department of English
University of Lagos