BOURNVITA REVOLUTION (Part I)

By Kanute Tangwa aka K(C)anute Tangwa

from the arrowhead of a jagged craggy countryside/

ngaiwir

– a beg!

fishang

impassive bloodshot eyes with bristling dreadlocks/

puffing weed from waiynama/

outpost of bui county/

towering above the ndop plain/

sitting on an undulating hilly savannah terrain/

changing tone with the whim of the seasons:

velvety carpet green during heavy rains/

dusty-brown during the dry-cold harmattan.

– why you dey beg?

Ngaiwir

passing through jakiri, nkar, sop, kumbo/

transiting yungkui/

down to the grazing fields of tadu-buh/

leaving behind the stretch off to elak-okpu/

unto the luxuriant farmlands of Mbiim:

tucked between high-rise hills/

traversing majestic granite ranges/

standing out defiantly/

on both sides of the untarred, limestone, stony and chalky road.

taking in the alternating hilly cavernous landform/

sculpted overtime by rivulets, streams and rivers/

interspersed with lush valleys and fertile soils: djottin-nooné.

1996

transforming the force of argument into argument of force/

– where fonlon lies in foreboding tranquility

flashlight of koki never deny pot ’64 the time is now

– where lainjo reposes in slumbering peace

apostle of cnpc portent ’61 predictions

mestastazing and spreading from garbuh to ambas/

peaking from 2016 thus far/

unchaining and letting loose field marshalls and generals of death and plunder/

stripping us of our laughter, our mores, our customs, our traditions, our godheads, our dance, our songs, our tales, our hamlets, our souls/

– Because we cannot tell who our real revolutionaries are

– Because we cannot sift the flour from the chaff

– For we now speak about our homesteads in hushed tones

since the stalking scabbard clad devil has taken over landscapes

– For we now see droning vultures waiting to feast on the carcases of yesterday and today:

since death has become meaningless

blood no longer shocks but sucks.

We are all casualties

8pm

Ngaiwir

free from his hood/

stepping out to buy a pack of cigarettes at the Maguida/

picking his way home with light from his cellphone/

catching a glimpse of vrooming revolving okadas/

amidst the refrain:

na yi we be di find’am!

na dey bushfaller!

na yi!

looking up at the dangling naked electric wire/

contemplating his environment:

an abandoned classroom in an abandoned school.