Stephen Kekeghe

Master, if yesterday was dead,
I could still remember how I folded my knees
On the mocking face of the sand
To wash your filthy feet
...

I poked around dreams:

In a dream,
A poignant pauper poleaxed
...

I know one day, they will hear my voice
From this thorn-filled wasteland
That I stride across wearily,
The biting scourge of the sun
...

We undress our topsoil
While beetles erupt our tuber beds.
The leeches on the stool
Sucking the nature oil
...

In the night,
If you walk through
This soggy street
Where virtuous spirits
...

I dance to this arena
Crooning the chants
Of yesterday’s storm
And tomorrow’s harvest
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In a filthy world
We toil….
Toil…
...

What are they bokoharamming?
If religion thrives salvation
Why do they engage in cannibalistic rampage
To salvage it?
...

MEND was birthed to mend the injustice
That crossed our path.
The injustice of the dispossessed…
So, so they tell us!
...

My heart froze
the golden glimmers of the moon
slept behind the terrifying garment
of the coven cloud.
...