At least, at last, we are born again!

I wondered what to put on on this remarkale day, so when I rushed to my tent from overnight dancing (disco, church and Bor dances the same night), un/fortunately, I made a mis/take to put on wrong shoes and wrong socks on right legs. This by the end of the day cost me a farewell interview with Uncle Dr. Trouble (Tourabi). "Boy," he grins as usual, "but your legs have completed the interview for me." Therefore, I went home un/ashamed and began to recite my Poem 107 from my "The Black Christs of Africa", thus; (SEE THE OPPOSITE SIDE...)

This Saturday, at least, at last, when I seem to have fully recovered from independence hangover, and before I seem to discover a ‘dependence hang-under,’ allow me to open my mouth to talk about how we were born again las two Saturdays. In the first place, let me first tell you what happened in the last place on July 9.

And the best way to bring it out of my intentiion to your attention is by pictures. Since a picture tells a thousand words, this is what the day tells us through the eye of my camera:

As our flag went up higher than the rest, a neighbour beside me in a packed crowd raised his V-sign (victory) as high as the flag which peeps out of the V, saying what my poems says below:


 Inspect your very self,

Examine all the pairs

Of your own body.

Look at your eyes.

Look at your arms.

Look at your legs.

Though twinned and twined,

They connect not

Into one hip knot.

Each connects independently.

And when you walk,

They go alternately:

Each at a time

Each at a turn,


But why,

why do you,

how dare you,

want me to follow,

to flow on your footstep,

like the leg of a bicycle,

that trails the footprint

of the one in front?

Don’t you see the Nile,

Passing through me first,

Then through you last?

If you think we’ll be ever together,

Then first, let the wheels gather

From their four trails to one rail.

If you want to convince me,

First convince the biblical Abraham

Who tells the tycoon in hell’s torment:

Between you and Poor Lazarus

Is a gulf, a gap too deep to cross,

Too deep to reconcile and close.

Just let me go all at a go

With some bits of ego.