THE NIGHT SANGO CAME TO UJAGBE. By Suleiman Agbonkhianmen Buhari (Nigeria)

THE NIGHT SANGO CAME TO UJAGBE. By Suleiman Agbonkhianmen Buhari (Nigeria)

Electricity and Firebrand Christianity came hand in hand

To my village, “Spirit of Fire” churches and electric poles

Were erected simultaneously throughout Ujagbe.

And in their bid to prove that our old gods were made of myths,

Clay and nothing more, a group of recently converted fanatics,

Doubly charged by Real-life and Television preachers, ran through

Our sacred shrines, smashing figurines and declaring an end to paganism.

Our people impressed by their audacity and emboldened

By the lack of retribution joined the insomnic fanatics

As they marched through the streets declaring “Ujagbe for Christ.”

A few nights after the desecration, Sango came down to Ujagbe

In a blackout-preceding surge, in a vandalistic thunderstorm

Whose howling winds swayed trees, unthatched roofs,

Pulled down poles and mangled antennae.

Some say Sango’s robes were red, dyed in the blood of sacrifice,

Others said he looked fluorescent clad in a lightning emitting white

Some say the Orisha walked alone,

Others said because he was an Alaafin of Oyo in life,

A regiment of howling horsemen still heralded his coming

In death and it was the prancing of this cadre of Ethereal Equestrians

That made the holes in our roofs through which

The windswept water came neighing into our rooms.

Some say they saw Sango axing down the electric poles,

Others say the poles Doba’led; laid prostrate in his presence,

As he calmly strolled through Ujagbe, towards his desecrated shrine sildenafil citrate 100mg.

And when he got there he ascended in a bolt of Reverse Lightning,

Whose reverberating thunder rippled through our village

Shattering windows, Drinking glasses and Television screens.

Leaving behind a trail of Glittering glass and the seamlessly

Reassembled figurines our people bowed to in the morning.

Under the Guava Tree by Annetjie van Wynegaard (South Africa)

Under the Guava Tree by Annetjie van Wynegaard (South Africa)

The red earth under my nails makes the teacher scarlet rant and jump and jive as I stare out the window for 2 o’clock.

My body is dragged to the bathroom where brush and file and cloth and soap do the necessary work and tangled knots are pulled hither and thither.

I stare with open mouth at the string of sun that moves along the green and white until the devilled bell and 30 pairs of bare feet race across the dirt to white bread and cheese and netball games.

Vetkoek and jam in hand, zip inside the shadow of the sweet smells my friends with bees and white small leaves and the thing that scares the ladies in hats en route to church is that I am content with being happy.

The seeds let off a mist of pink and yellow zest and the ants steady on, steady on for the moment I could pickle and put in the pantry.

Deep the deep the roots the red the dirt the rife life lies inside the unexplored colonies