The Long Wait Poem by Victor Okey Nwatu

How it all started, we all know.
‘cos it did draw emotions, and rightly so.
Emotions at both extremes of the joy divide
that threatened our well-knit class to divide.
But, time has, all emotions, vapourised.
And left us more united; our unity un-terrorised.

But before that, it did place a barrier
between us and our beloved chosen career.
Eleven souls were seriously tempted to say,
“we’ve made it, it all went our way.”
And the other nine had the temptation of saying,
“we’ve lost out; our time we’ve been just slaying.”

To say this, I’ve got to be bold –
All that glittered wasn’t pure gold.
‘cos the eleven that thought they’ve made it
saw that theirs wasn’t an instant hit.
They had to tarry for number of months, seven
Before names were reeled out; they were seven.

Of the seven names first rolled out;
two were picked up and flown out.
And like the pendulum, went to-and-fro Seoul.
Where they toiled and were toiled for, body and soul.
And it was waiting game for the other four;
who, as days rolled, almost became the poor four.

Then a name popped out as a call came through.
And it was the one with first name, first letter U.
Her call was a casing, cement, a taut rope
to the caving formation of the three soul’s hope.
For them, theirs was around the corner.
So, their resumption crawled back to the front burner.

But, the enthusiasm ebbed after it got to peak
for it wasn’t matched by Baba T’s crew, so to speak.
‘cos the call never came around in a matter of days.
It appeared in after many months and many days.
When it came, it was just one out of the three.
Which wasn’t Ishan’s finest, wasn’t me.

Four months’ calls almost made Baba T’s fone a wreck;
And for that, all hands were on deck.
All including the good ole Grace,
Were conscripted, dragged along at our pace.
Till on a reçu un appel of joy
That made Faffy a don from a poor boy.

It still remained Okoduwa and I
left literally out in the cold; maybe, high and dry.
But we formed an alliance; a common front
and Baba T’s fone did bear the brunt.
It was called with a constant frequentation.
In its being called, there was no hesitation.

It took about a month’s time tick,
for everything to finally click.
And the files swimming since July
made it home, not submerged, still dry.
The awaited call then came through
and I now have a job like y’all do.

How was the Baba T henpecking experience?
What really did we experience?
Did we like by other – on life support?
Or did we make it on our own, no support?
These and other questions, I won’t answer.
They are addressed in the poem How I got over.

For putting up with my poems, you’re all kind.
I promise this’ll be the last of its kind.
No more invasion of your private city.
No more free poems; no more free publicity.
From now till March, there’ll be silence.
Just wait for my book of poems – Poetic Licence.


(Oct 2010)