Bleaching (poetry)

Okafor, Akin, Shehu,
Names of our ancestors,
Lugard, Usman, Richardson,
Names of terrible strangers,
Intruders through our palm frond fences,
Desecrators of African sanctity,
Destroyers of our peaceful serenity.
Our seeds spoke in their tongues,
Their words are fluent without faltering,
Our seeds can no more speak Africa,
Kofi, Diarra, Khumalo, they can’t rightly say,
Ancestors, close your ears to this,
Your eyes are already shut, am glad!
Vile deeds are done,
At home and diaspora wide.
Black souls and skins are bleached,
Thanks to cosmetic concoction,
No thanks, the gods are angry,
Our tongues, our skins are gone,
Our names are dying too,
We now bear the foreigner’s name,
Abandoned rich cultures for cheap ones,
Relinquished invaluable norms and values for folly,
Abomination, the land cry!
Our ancestors are angry,
Their faces smoke in rage,
They seek rebirth as appeasement.

Darlington.

The masquerade dance (Poetry)

Google image

They blazed into the arena, 

Routing previous bleak and gloom, 

With their spectacular apparel,

Creatively crafted with colourful raffia strands.

They embraced the gong's rhythms,

In the back and forth motion dance, 

With raffia heads pounding the dusty ground,

Back and forth to the throng's amazement. 

The metal and wooden gongs synergize,

Partnering osha, udu and kongas,

Making rhythms that lifted our hearts, 

As was the splendid dancing spirits.

The anchorman restrained them with ropes, 

Aptly checking their unpredictable rage,

As they gyrate in the kingly dance, 

With a majestic stutter and swagger. 

Offspring of Umunneoha ,

Where ebony cultures are still alive,

And our dance, the lovely export,

Which took our people far and wide. 

@Akakuru Darlington.