Nwatu's Confession - 4 Poem by Victor Okey Nwatu

Were it not for broads, I would rarely confess
‘cos it’s when love turns sour, and I’m in distress
that I unlock the floodgates of my creative power,
and lines I churn out, from love turned sour.
So, this is not unlike the prototype,
But, in sequence, it’s the quatrotype.

It’s the damsel in part two that I write of.
The one, on her B.Day, I professed endless love.
The one that’s tall, fine and with a kind heart,
and was behind my confession of the 3rd part.
Same way Carl Benz was behind the automobile.
Or maybe, oil is behind ExxonMobil.

I remember, Oh Yes! I do well remember,
that day, in a month not far from December.
I recited for the zillionth time my sixteen bars –
my first post-teen real-time sixteen bars.
Out to the flanks, I called her;
and in that booth, I spit my bars to woo her.

Was I closing my lids? I can’t really recall.
Did I spit all my bars? I can’t recall.
Was it fitful, jerky, a slapdash?
Was my brain on hols, did I spit balderdash?
All these could suffice, and much more.
‘cos I was gazed at stoically for a sec, or more.

I was in my twenties, but I was young
‘ve been in the wooing game, not for long.
‘cos anxiety gripped my heart, tore it apart.
And the sphincter of my bladder began to part.
My pulmonary flow pipes began to choke;
afraid of seeing three years of work up in smoke.

Time stood still, but still passed.
The way it moved, supersonically fast.
My heart stood still, but moved the same way;
only held by my mouth from going astray.
While my eyes, prettier by far, than any,
searched for answers, if there were any.

Her replies, they finally came,
like the steps of a man on one foot lame.
Fits-and-starts, the worn-out word,
more or less like the cuts of a blunted sword.
‘I’m dazed and amazed, ’ she did say.
‘I’ll give you my word, but not today.’

When? The poor me enquired.
Not now, time for thought’s required
was what exited her visibly shaking lips,
very much alien to such sudden flips.
I knew much pressure, as a reason, wouldn’t fly.
I decided to, as it were, let sleeping dogs lie.

The wait was like my later Long Wait;
Like waiting for a shark to bite a foam bait.
So, I made a move to save my heart from toil,
but her response made my viper to recoil.
From her to me, was a firm no.
No future entre nous. No future. No.

Was it my height? I’m not that short. No!
Was it my girth? I’m not that fat. No!
Was it my face? Was it those scars? Nada!
Was it my lines? Was it those bars? Nada!
‘I love your style, your swagger, and more…
But, there’ll be no us; you weren’t a year older, or more

‘I’m a poet, you know that so well, ’ I told her.
‘But I don’t get it, please break it down. Would ya? ’
‘I’m older than you are, one year or so…
‘You’re like a little brother, don you know? ’
There’s no future for us; that’s what she said.
And both my eyes turned blood red.

I woke my brain from its apparent slumber,
And explained to her ‘age is nothing but a number.’
And that I looked older than her by far.
thanks to my gait, and mostly, to my obvious scar.
That we would be Whitney and Bobby in their prime.
Or Courtney and Joseph, in their early time.

But, to her guns, she stoutly stuck;
Strong and unmoved, like Gibraltar’s rock;
Seemingly impervious to my sleek bars
‘cos the decision wasn’t entirely hers
It was a synthesis of some sort, a composite
of the views or kith and kin, hardened to a deposit.

I asked ‘who’s the head of this ancient group.’
‘Who’s the chief thread of this minky loop? ’
‘It’s our matriarch, ’ she said. ‘It’s my mum’
‘To her views, I bow with my mouth mum.’
I got her details, to sing her a psalter.
But, my liver caved in, began to falter.

How I felt, words can never express;
It’s close to being lost in a lonely express;
close to expressing an orange in the arctic;
close to a job-chat on a phone full of static;
close to being in the Sahara and needing a drink;
close to losing one’s mind; or being on its brink.

So, for two years, we parted ways.
And never saw ourselves for same number of days.
Though we claimed to be just friends,
we knew, of a truth, we were not friends.
I don’t know of her, but I, for one
felt used and dumped, maybe, for another one.

And in that fit, I stepped on ten fine toes;
‘cos I latched on to another, compounded my woes.
And I never seemed to define my goals;
bent on getting one to play her roles.
And in eight months, I broke a heart –
an act that always hurt my heart.

Then along came the era of no love;
between people I know and me, we lost no love.
It was an era that’s the darkest of my life.
‘T was so dark it could be called era of strife.
‘T could be said that I and death did spar;
and I emerged with my most vicious scar.

After a while, we began to be pulled near;
as the veneer of hatred began to wear.
Between us two were spoken sweet words.
And into our scabbard were sheathed our swords.
Our new state made me up with hope;
and her visit fanned the embers of that hope.

But into the works, I threw a spanner;
unbuttoned my fly, peed into our manna.
In seeking to know our destined direction,
I popped, once again, that all-important question.
‘Okey, I’m telling you the truth, ’ she did reply.
‘My stance hasn’t changed. I tell you no lie.’

And to the fray, a new twist was added.
Age alone wasn’t why I was discarded.
There was an old horse, veteran in the game;
well known to us, YR is in his name –
that punched heavier and faster than I could punch;
and was already in orbit while I tried to launch.

To him, she’d given the three-letter word, Yes!
It wasn’t too hard for me to guess.
For the three years that what we had worked;
he, as a father-figure, in the shadows lurked.
Though losing to him cut like a knife;
it didn’t hurt like wasting my time, my life.

As you read this, they are man and wife;
and I’m back in the trenches, fighting for a wife.
What do the trenches hold in stock for me?
I hope it’s good, like I did in Part Three.
And for the one whom in this poem, I wrote;
she wouldn’t hear my song, not even a note.

Mar-2011