Under The Bridge – Notes From A Nigerian Child

As I sat by the fire and watched mother cook
She recalled stories of the dark ages
Whose significance are now lost

At nine, I ran away
Enough of these blackness and empty holes
I will not see again these fire woods
These black pots

I wandered east
As far as Ijora Bridge
Stopping at the edge of the black waters
That surrounds the National Theater

A year later
I had joined the men under the bridge
Bus conductor at daylight
Monster, smashing car windows at night

I’ve sometimes wondered whether
My brain is made of clay
The same black clay pot I ran away from

My origin still blurred and distorted
My destiny ever remote
What a transformation

I now fight like an ape
With my feet and fist
Bottles and knives
Changed my name from Uche to Segun
Big wrists, big hands
Brown teeth
Scares on my face
But my eyes still looks oddly innocent

Child of circumstance?
Born to suffer?

As years passed by
I metamorphosed
From an indigent child that lacked everything
To a monster that has everything
Yet, I have nothing

I had slept at the banks of the river
As we await the cover of darkness
To ride back to our dungeon
In a stolen canoe
After an unsuccessful overnight robbery

I had seen hulking figures
With sunglasses after dusk
Driving aimlessly in unmarked vehicles
Waiting for marked victims
In this city that is drifting
Pilgrims to unholy spots of Lagos
That never returned to tell their stories
Men on suite as sinister
As men under the bridge

Mother used to call me Nnam
When she thought I was the one
The chosen one to wipe her tears
They used to call me Kekere
When I moved with the men under the bridge
I later choose Akwa Eke
I resonance with the rhythm
Emanating from my abode

Yesterday
While walking the dirty alley of Apapa
With hands in the pocket of my cheap coat
In search of a whore in the dark
I heard tongues I’ve heard before
I heard her call me Uchenna
The dark part of my brain was lit up
And the skeleton of my dead forefathers
Started turning in their graves
The whore happens to be kid sister – just turned fourteen

The hovering ghost of my dead mother
Ran forward with her spider-like fingers
And hung my head from an unseen rope
While urine darkened my trousers

Who am I? 

I’m the bird
Crippled at birth
The headless dragon
That destroyed itself as elders watched
I’m that schoolmaster that can’t read nor write
The golden egg
That incubated in the bosom of wild creatures
The child, the gloomy future, the adult
With a tale of mindless violence
I’m the Nigerian child  

© Churchill Okonkwo 2008

Robot  # 1 | 27.05.2008 23:19

Under The Bridge – Notes From A Nigerian Child ...Read the full article.

Eunique  # 2 | 28.05.2008 11:37

This poem is 'deeper than deep'!!!

ronkemac  # 3 | 28.05.2008 15:05

Inspired by Churchill Okonkwo and written in solidarity with the newborn twin babies sold by their mother to a child trafficker in Lagos in May 2008: I’m the dove Stained with blood The unsmiling mouth That killed its innocence as elders watched I’m that mother who traded her baby The precious seed That betrayed the past for pieces of silver The woman, the barren future, the adult With a heart of loveless passion I’m the Nigerian woman

FoxCatcher  # 4 | 28.05.2008 16:00

A poignant and heartrending narrative of the unfortunate reality confronting many foot soldiers in the trenches (read gutters) and ghettoes of Lagos, PH, Warri, etc. In the battle for survival in the nation's gutter zones, morality and conscience are often the first casualties. Unfortunately for both the victim and hapless society who create them, all acts in the drama end up being stones cast into the market place. The repercussions have granted no quarter nor recognised any kin.

Oluwato  # 5 | 29.05.2008 00:56

=ronkemac;4295047358>Inspired by Churchill Okonkwo and written in solidarity with the newborn twin babies sold by their mother to a child trafficker in Lagos in May 2008: I’m the dove Stained with blood The unsmiling mouth That killed its innocence as elders watched I’m that mother who traded her baby The precious seed That betrayed the past for pieces of silver The woman, the barren future, the adult With a heart of loveless passion I’m the Nigerian woman Ronkemac, Do you have a link to the story in your poem? Oluwato

ronkemac  # 6 | 30.05.2008 14:43

=Oluwato;4295047496>Ronkemac, Do you have a link to the story in your poem? Oluwato From ThisDay of 6th May 2008. http://allafrica.com/stories/200805070152.html