MADIBA BY OGAGA IFOWODO (SONNET)

Nights into days into nights. Endless grief.

But come more nights. Let Barraba’s the Thief
grovel on the cross and go to heaven.
But come more baits, and I would as often
be free. Beyond bounds.
As the marching feet that dared tanks, and dancing, proclaimed the street.
The hands of time chained to the rock I broke stood still.
The world hung fragile on a spoke.

And I’d had time enough to love the sea,

to scour its depths for the lost clock, the key
to the road followed by the crossing Jews.
And I’d had time enough for all views.

Of the life to come, pressing the wind vane against the wind.
Free from the crusted plane.
There are no dead ends, only the birthplace
of awaited dreams. Plumbed with the bold mace
the hidden road opens to the dance hall,
the river washes brighter the flower’s shawl.

War or peace or war without end − the goal?

Death and grief and death till none dread the toll?
To pass the neighbour’s house quietly, stabbed
by the silence that dwells in it? Flagged
down by the stranded traveller, to take fright
and flee from him so he breaks by midnight?
To let a gun, shoot at the falling leaf?
To raze the house seeking to trap the thief?
There are no dead ends. Beyond the closed sky
is the kingdom of the brave. And the shy.
Through the dark forest, the high branch was my
radar. And I could walk alone till I
heard the echo and the water falling
from stone. And I could join the spring singing:
 I will wash your feet coated with dust, flow
to those that thirst and make the fields grow.
Now we may judge outside the blinding flash
of war. The child shall sleep tonight. The gash
of battle heals with a smile on mother’s
face. Men shall spend evenings with their daughters.
Laughter, at the outskirts of town, taunts scarred lips
with a returning song. The orchard sips
the dew and stoops with fruit. And children pluck
apples with their stones. The hour has struck!