THIS IS FATHERS’ DAY: FOR MY FEATHERS’ SAY — ALIVE OR DEAD…!
This is the day to think about and thank your father, if alive; o think about and forgive the death if he is dead. I tried to do so for my dead dad last month but somebody thought I was being ‘STUPID’!
On Facebook, I shared this:
“For me, I have learned and earned something, hence have forgotten nothing from the past. I have not forgotten that Aluong Alith, the man who brought me to this world, was killed in the 1991 Bor Massacres. But I have learned that I am in 2013, not in 1993, the year I was informed of his death when I was a Jesh Ahmr in Eastern Equatoria. I have learned that Riek Machar is not going to pay every orphan, widow and widower blood money, say 10,000 SSP in compensation, each. I have not forgotten that. That is why I am hereby inviting back those, especially from Bor Community, who are still in 1991 to migrate to 2013; those who want personal apologies and individual compensations from our murderous leaders, to join us in demanding mass repentance and community compensation through developmental projects. We should forgive but not forget history. That is why I have forgiven and wanted to be forgiven, and am still able to recall what I wrote during those days of the CPA, addressed to our leaders for their reminder, and kept in my poetry title: THE BLACK CHRISTS OF AFRICA, as follows:
LIKE MY DEAD DAD!
They’ve come of age,
Yet , not come of sage;
How come an old man
Hate his new young man!
In the same game,
Hate my damn fame;
Don’t you hurt my lame name.
Out there, it’s a flame of blame!
Father, who adores his day,
And who abhors a child’s say,
Your countdown alarm clock—
‘Tis ticking towards your next flock!
Death is the only democracy
That condones not the old bureaucracy.
In the world of the living or the dead,
Altogether, you’re just like my dead dad.
O, Dry FATHER!
Most of my friends
As well as my fiends
Go back home to see their fathers
And they are all in feathers,
For theirs have not yet met their end.
Unlike me, at the end,
Going to my wild homestead,
In Bor, the genocide hotspot,
Of Jonglei State, the hot pot.
There I see
A valley of Dry Bones,
Void of any newborns.
I see him, already it,
Lying clean and white,
His skull detached,
His soul attached,
Together with theirs,
And them to whom we are heirs,
Lying wide spread,
Drying like wild bread.
Among numerous dry heads,
Is my dad’s, still with beads,
His teeth still intact,
Only for my identity contact.
Needless to ask whose
Orders made him lose
Not only his life but my love,
Who knows not but just to live.
Only him and Him know how,
Who against whom to revenge but not now.
The world dies over and over again, but the skeleton always gets up and walks.
In addition, this on the annual calendar is Africa’s child day. As to why and how it became Africa’s child’s day, besides being invaded now by my day, Father’s Day, this is what I wrote about it last year.
That aside, the 16th day of the 6th month in the Year of our Lord (AD 2012), is called Africa Child’s Day. This is because it is the only incident in history where children (I mean children biologically) have attempted to fight for their rights against a bad regime. Mind you, the African children of that shanty town did not fight silently, they did fight violently. This happened in 1976 at Soweto township of South Africa, and its replica happened in the 80s and 90s in shanty villages in South Sudan (the then Sudan). As thousands of school toddlers poured into the streets to demand a change in the conditions of their schools (education in general), they were crushed with excessive force by the Apartheid Regime under the Boers rule in South Africa. To kill over 170 children in one day just because they have asked you to exclude your language from their classroom is an abomination in the nation of humans not only condemned herein but also hereafter and thereafter, say, on earth as also in heaven. Amen! This is how it happened.
Click here for full story: https://weakleak.wordpress.com/2012/06/17/1076/
As usual, I celebrate my achievement, children, in poetry, which expresses my real me. The following poems are on the chapter of Children in “The Black Christs of Africa”.
THE VULTURE OF THE FUTURE
As a ten-year old messenger of doom
Scrambles for filth mount’s edible content
With but a winged scavenger of boom,
A tan – here odd – passenger with ill intent,
Clicks with precision the lensed owl zoom
On the lad who licks on his hand with discontent
The dried-in oral dehydration salts.
As the solitary minor goes scavenging,
His age-mates go on unfounded avenging,
For his father was once in theirs’ forefront.
Be gone you poor Lazarus, clothed vulture!
They yell. He begs, I’m a vulture of the future.
Then they jeer at him who does not confront
Them with his moral degeneration assaults.
Common looking people are the best in the world: that is the reason the Lord makes so many of them.
Abraham Lincoln, US President (1961 – 1965)
THE MANKY MONKEY
In a murky morning,
A lanky manky monkey
Tries to grope to the grove,
Alley too manky for two monkeys,
Inhabited by corpses living in copses,
Who subsist on coffees in the coppice.
Solitary, he survives, too solid and stolid
To move with the doves and dine with nine
Out of a hundred of children of his kindred,
The children so infra-agile and fragile to him.
During the war, he’s pushed into the bush.
From his sweet street, he feeds on weeds,
Where he becomes manager of the manger,
To educate the mangy mongrels to manducate
In a jungle life of not education but manducation.
Because fine kids should ne’er mix with manky monkeys,
Void of humanity, the outcasts later become voice of humility.
Whoever will cause one of these little ones who believe in me to stumble, it would be better for him if he was thrown into the sea with a millstone hung around his neck.
I WISH I WERE THAT OBAMA’S PUPPY
First, I was so mad and sad
When they employed a cat
In President Bush’s house,
Where there is no mouse.
Again, I was not happy
As they adopted a puppy
In President Obama’s Palace
Where I have not a little place.
Lo, I really am mad
With my ribs on a mat
And Obama Junior, Bo, on a mattress,
Where he neither has stress nor distress.
Here, hear, I am helplessly hapless,
Unlike that puppy, harmlessly hopeless.
How I wish I were that Omaha’s blabby baby,
How I wish I were that Obama’s happy puppy!
I work here the whole day, the whole day, Just for 50 Euros, and that exactly is the amount they pay here, for a day care, just to keep a dog! In Africa where I come from, dogs are considered dangerous animals, but here they are part of a family, treated better than African workers.
A Ugandan Immigrant in Europe, Al Jazeera documentary.
When our stepmother
Steps out of our father,
And steps up a sinister campaign,
Driving our father to champagne,
And when she switches to witches,
Pointing that it’s our aunt that bewitches
Into the blank all that she wishes but in vain,
She contracts her witches to extract from our vein
The medicine to soothe her incessant complaint.
In this case, we’re but very inno-saint.
When our neighbour
Fails to get a favour
In our ten-year old sister,
He plots something sinister—
waylays her who is overpowered,
And then he dumps her deflowered!
And then the police case is filed,
Only his name is arrested. But she’s defiled!
Now her future is indelibly stained,
Because she is very inno-saint.
When Tong-Tong militias
Plan their acts, always malicious,
To too early wean us off our schools,
Because they win not even those fools
To support their fake idea of liberation,
We fall prey to their hands for political libation.
Now that our rights are trampled on, we children,
Have to declare a warfare, which is trickily modern.
May the God of Heaven crown every young soul saint,
Because we’re all very inno-saint.
IT IS THE JUBA-NILE DELINQUENCY
The ghetto gecko
As his pet-name goes
Rotates around the Jericho by echo
Like a mongoose feeding on raw mangoes
Singing Him the hymn
To appease Him who might condemn
O Big Three
Let me feel free
I do beseech
In this my lone speech
Pardon me, thy little leech
By this he lives on and on
Hoping one day he becomes a don
Alas, this Draconian law
That even amputates a son-in-law
Knows not that he is a juvenile
Who subsists along the Nile
Or pickpockets on Juba streets
Less aware those shoplifted sweets
Fulfill that ignorance of the law
Is no excuse—but an open offence
That alone risks his wrist on a judge’s saw
This Juba-Nile crime frequency
is due to juvenile delinquency
as a kid on the wind’s wings swings on a see-saw.
“They are not juvenile delinquents. These are children who have been taken from homes that were bad for them.”
THE BISCUITS RECRUITS
Once you stick like a tick
With no single grain of brain;
Like a donkey after the carrot,
Being not the intelligent parrot,
Is let by a stick to an expedition,
Lo, a price for foolery: perdition!
When our brothers were reduced
To half humans and then induced
To die firing at their own kith and kin,
The wise world would grin at the green sin
Being brewed by our shrewd neighbourhood,
The Judases fooled to abuse their brotherhood.
And the forbidden sin of all is they’re made wild,
Having installed in their skulls the brain of a child,
Holding their vacant heads high on a foreign street,
And they, with Judas’s catch of cash, feel so sweet.
Like a bunch of starved orphans made naïve recruits,
They fall prey on foul play match-fixed with biscuits.
THE NEED FOR A SEED
Whoever has not planned,
really wants not to plant
on the onset of the rains,
so ideally leaves it vacant
So that he then harvests
Mother Nature’s forests.
Once the mental field
is but maternally laid,
So that it must yield,
it must need a seed.
And if left fallow,
then an evil fellow,
by means of stealth,
stuffs it but with filth,
now a devil’s workshop,
which calls for a bishop.
If this world is to continue,
posterity must have a retinue,
that is why my number 1 need
is nothing but a need for a seed.
“Give me four years to teach the children and the seed I have sown will never be uprooted.”
Vladimir Ilyich Lenin