MANKUNIA

In Piccadilly where I first met her I thought,
oh! What a beauty she was
Old and young, Oi! Ahem!
Me mum! she pitifully declared.
To sale an agent had me posted
To guard a shop from local lads
Whose hooded deeds,
the shopkeeper detested
Unready to be fleeced in waffles or coins
The travel shop gentleman, hardly gentle
But the literature I read was more subtle
The bus driver never heard of Miss Gertrude
Summat, I garner many stops before getting rude
An old sale lady pointed me out with a smiley'
And I strode out toward her pointing
You can't miss it, her farewell stated
Hours later my Miss Gertrude remained missing
In Piccadilly where I first met her
I thought how quite she was and reserved
The beauty that 'me mum' pitifully declares
Now I know to double check before setting for her pointing

Herald A Nation

Herald the claim that beseiged a nation veiled
That set a bound sould free again
From an epoch of shoddy trade
That saw a bondsman in trade florish
As many murky soles thronged to stall
With same twosome limbs as the wench
Bless a heart that seek to know why
Why a lighter shade is better than dark

The royal scroll disentangled
At the abolitionist's will,
I am a will, I am a force
Cry out to others that we equal now
The roy' scroll has unravelled
Our wild fate
Joy in our valley, peace on our lan'
Our 'pressor's hands are fallen to dust
The leash, the chain, is broken
We'll rejoice now till kingdom come
And our song shalt to world end
forever be heard


Gbenga Diran Afolabi
Copyright ©2008 Gbenga Diran Afolabi

Bad Fake Accent

In my dreams I dined with tarantino
Directed Al Pacino
And frolicked with Nacimento
My day job is funtography
But I long for hollymoons filmography
Pretty strides and long
Short plays, scripting, youtubing and all
I read instructions well too
The recommended tips are usually great
Till i read about using the bad fake accent
And my dreams lay wet on my side
Only three years on this side
So scared I cant go to the hollymoons now
Or i could
If mine is not a bad fake accent

Gbenga Diran Afolabi
Copyright ©2008 Gbenga Diran Afolabi

TEE TOW CHICKEN

Watched it carry on
Always seven sharp was a buzz
It was a tee tow chicken corn
Dzoo dzoo like a wire gauze

Cramp on et-et sofa
Play lara croft on hen seven five
Laughed hard, boy tada
A tummy tucked on a shoulder jive

Shared a dark test koala
Danced with my father again and again
Sang Halleluiah Lord I honour her
A setting sun is ephemeral and plain

Suffice to advice my integrity
What less should be expected in this case
An abused wife’s husband keeps his cane
In the corner for the new bride

Beg your pardon that twiddles an artery
Shame, nought less was expected in this game
Your lordship won before at archery
But lost big time on a sunny day



Written for the tee tow chicken that twiddles, fondles and loves ...their cake, and have it
2008 (c) Gbenga Afolabi

NO BEEF POLAN’

This poem is dedicated to Ama Sumani, a cancer sufferer who was deported to Ghana, West Africa by the Home office.

No beef Polan’
But i must tell of what boy London did to me
In need of a free hand, he came to me
To toil in chill and heat and fill a bleeding bonbonnierre
So his noble friends might have sugar and sweets
And cotton to cover a sinful pact


No beef Polan’
But his rant of ‘apes obey’ yet sadden me
And his logic and legalities yet mock me
Knotted, tied upstairs, I cry
Broken— so broken, I died
Like a beast of burden
I died

No beef Polan’
None from a slained man
I lay dead and walked in the cloud
Looked down and I saw a lot cast on me
And many trampled upon me
And I wondered if I will ever rise again

No beef polan’
Yet crossed many rivers and mountains
For need of freehand
And pray Jesus on the sea brought
The sons of asewa
And when the break for a paid one came
He remembers his long forgotten cousin’s
Polan’
Then I asked, am I not a man enough?

No beef Polan’
But for time, i cleaned his field
So that blood drips
And death whispers in my ear
As my bones continues to mesh to my flesh,
As i continue to ask, am I not a man and a brother at all?


Gbenga Afolabi (c) 2008



WHAT IS A LIFE WORTH?
Slavery is the greatest savagery that could have been committed to any man let alone millions of innocent men and women over a very long period of time. Prised away from families and friends and sold as animal is not a hilarious event. The recipe for enslavement is a profound hatred. It is even more worrying if the enslavers are men and women who pride themselves on their level of development which purportedly is guided by the Christian religion. But if all else is false, one thing I know is true, and that is that Jesus was no slave master.
How do you put a price on a life? How do you put a price on millions of innocent lives? How I ask. A great evil was done, a colossal mistake was been made in the name of God, Jesus and Angels but, what yet burdens my heart is the meagre effort that is dedicated to redeeming the self.
Slavery is savagery, slavery is genocide, and slavery is racism. In his book, Animal Farm, George Orwell’s characters wrote that ‘all animals are equal, but some are more equal than others’. I wish to ask if this is the case. Is what is good for the goose also good for the gander? Is what is good for the white also good for the black man? Are all men truly treated as equals, when England needed slaves she went to Africa, yes after all the British scientist James Watson claims that the black man is less intelligent that than the white. When Great Britain needs additional work force she goes to Europe. Let us ask ourselves.
The truth is this racism still occurs at the highest level.
I asked before what a life is worth, what 2 million lives are worth.

THE THINGS I DO

The things I do
Do do things
Do do things I didn’t think
Do do things I didn’t now
Do do
Do
So when I do do things now
I wonder what they will do

Gbenga Afolabi (c) 2008-06-17

CARLOS MONTE ROSA’S BOOK

First, I wasted my time reading your book
How can your Joe do that?
Taking from same ol’ South of mine
He or you
One of you showed no respect for the project
I am the project
And on top of that he going round blabbing
And chatting to my lady
Joe going round to ma gurl
Oh c’mon
Whatchu want from me
And on top of that he selling in ma neighbourhood
Lil man selling ma neighbourhood
Must have been having some great fun
Then he been round looking for a luger
Who the Lil man going to shot now
Oh I see
You is joe
Yea, you is joe
I know, i know
You cracker head son of a monte rose
From Mexican border
Wanna shot someone down
You is got bladder to write it down
And present it to me
Listen and listen good Carlo
There is one,
Only one book publishing
In ma project
And I run it
I am the project
My project is me
You destroy ma project
You destroy me
So now Joe’s got a luger
You got one too?
Mebbe you gonna train it on me now
Or how’ll ask you again
Whatchu want from me
Cos Carlos
aint no way you getting it
Good day Senor Monte Rosa.


Gbenga Afolabi (c) 2008-05-22

The Maestro

The Maestro wrote a song
He was sitting on a swing
When he wrote a song
The maestro wrote me a song
About love
On a paper he kept
From 1973
The maestro wrote a song
In the project
He wrote about love
It was very long
He was going to bring it to me
So I can play it on my guitar
While he sits near fireplace
I still smile
That the maestro wrote for me
On a piece he kept from ‘73
Though I didn’t get the song
I was told he had it in his palm
When he slumped in the project
And it had love in it
And my name on it


Gbenga Afolabi (c) 2008-05-22

JUST A FEW MORE CHRISTMASES

That I may live
And be content
With longevity
While
However long
It is
Tops
Seventy
Or
Just a few more Christmases

Gbenga Afolabi (c) June 11 2007

THE BOOK IN THE BOOKSHELF

The magnolia colour invited me
And i went to feast on the volumes
Out of all the books in this shelf
Different names different colours
Small big tiny mighty
Mine is not on one yet
My name is not on one still

The clock continues to tick
My new vintage clock in the bookshelf
In front of my pix that keeps falling
On the books that lay and never standstill
I fancy a writer in me
My mouth goes one kind when i say that
But out of all the volumes in this shelf
Mine ain’t there just yet

The breeze blew some paper out of the bookshelf
And the cards i gather always fall to floor
And this card that today fell
A man, a publisher who promised me a deal
And i ain’t called him just yet
Tell a lie, out of the entire book on the shelf
My name is not a paperback yet
But i got my name on a page and loads on my laptop
Gbenga Afolabi (c) 2008-06-11

AWARE

I lay by my hearth
Ingenuity—a crowing cock
I’m aware
I may lie still thousand years
But my bones still wear
I may tug at my earth
The treasures I find I adhere
And take home a ware for my dear
I may torch my snare
And scatter the tracks of the deer
Felinity and humanity flirt
And wholesomeness reared
I may lay and pretend
That Kant was right the first time
Become as unaware
To a watching world
So I doubt not that you are there
And that I am not here
The sound I hear
The gurgling of water
The burning of water
As I crank my pump
I can lay unaware
But she watches without care
So long as my bone continues to wear
So will I lay unaware?
And lose to this winner
Will I tug at my earth?
Find a treasure for my dear
Douse my hearth in the morn’
Set out for a good old’ graft
Or pretend Kant was right the first time
Save I lay in city
Spending the vivre in my neck
Pneumonia makes the body sick
Or be aware and tug on
For here it is
I am AWARE

Gbenga Afolabi (c) 2007-06-17