Caught in the middle of two worlds
Am I their divider or their uniter
Or lost in the middle?
Torn in the tangle of many loves
Am I their comfort or their hurt
Or they mine?
Rooted at the crossroads of four callings
Am I interpreting it wrong or right
Or just a tool?
Laws confuse me. Love comforts me.
Lord, don’t make me a preacher
Just make me genuine
No matter the pain
I don’t want to be fake
I just don’t want to be fake.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Though you seem foolish
And out of touch
Keep on being who you are,
Neither life nor nature’s laws
Was created by human beings.
Though the politicians seem to have all power
Though the freedom-fighters seem to be the only brave ones
Though the intellectuals seem to know it all
Though the popular stars seem to be the only dream-achievers
Yet always remember…
Every single Thought you think
Every deep Intuition you perceive
Every Word you quietly say
And every Little Action in your life
Has an effect Somewhere, Somehow…
For nothing goes for nothing
Nothing gets lost in life, in nature, in Creation
And the fact is that while we’re all so busy
Running around the place
None of us really knows what it’s really all about.
So: Ye Unknown Ones, be brave
And when your Inner Sensing leads you away
From everything the world proclaims “Great” and “In”
Then forsake the world’s ways and quietly, quietly
Find Peace and Joy within your Hearts.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
NEWLY THE sun shone anew. Happy the multitude was to see again their surroundings. But where were they? A no-land. Only space and space and space. But no footprints and not a voice on the wind.
We seek the voices, we hear the silence. The multitude is faced with the choice – to turn inwards or to turn outwards. The multitude turned inwards and became a nation. Generations later, the nation turned outwards and faced the world.
Thus was the first Pride born. For the nation was too much for the world.
Let us leave the world and the nation, the multitude, the space and the silence, and look at the street. A busy street. Hawkers, traders, pedestrians, beggars, jam the sidewalks. Busses, cars, motorcycles, cram the roads.
Above them, an unsmiling face, almost but not as large as the sky, looks down guardingly upon them. The face is not the face of a loving protector, that much can be deduced from its features. It is the face of a prison warden. Emotionless and evil. Because the prison is his.
A face turns upwards. One of the people on the street has a strange sensation hard to describe. She looks up, sees the face, screams and collapses. People walk by her. Others stop. She is dead. They cross themselves, mutter prayers and walk away.
Let us go back to the nation. The nation has arisen. It is all-powerful. It runs like a well-oiled machine, a high-tec computer. It shut itself out of the world for generations. It let nothing in, not even nature. Now it is ready to face the world. It towers over the rest of the world and opposes all who seek to break away from this new sway.
Others raise their gazes too, see the face of the guardian of evil. They collapse and die too, just like the woman. But the souls of the dead have risen too, they mingle amongst the living and strengthen invisibly their resolve. And sometimes now when I look up at the giant face of the prison-guard in the dark dark clouds above us, I see a slightly worried look in his eyes. Things are going wrong. He feels it. But he cannot put his finger on it.
Why are people looking up?
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Wieder ein neuer Tag
Die Reifen rollen, ich sitze
Sitze fest und ruhig
Das Frühstück war anders heute
Die ersten Minuten sind gut überstanden
Ich bin mein neuer Tag
Geworden.
Tag im Tag.
Ich fahr durch meine Gedanken
Unterwegs zum Büro
Hauptstadt ist eine Urempfindung
Straßen befinden sich im Bau
Immer
Immer wieder
Wieder verstehe ich nur die Bäume
Sie sind, was sie sind
Wie viele sind wir im Bus?
Das einzig Verbindende ist nicht mal ein Gruß.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
The stone that stood
Alone, refused
And baked in sunshine hard
Stepped upon
Spat upon
Outcast, reject, discard
The stone that the builder refused
The stone that the hammer abused
Philosopher’s stone, dreamer’s muse
Song without a bard
Song without a bard.
Dark is the night
No light in sight
What can I say as comfort?
Rugged stranger
Lonewolf, Ranger
Even words of comfort hurt
The house is slow, is slow to rise
Each wall is pride, is compromise
Nobody wants to apologise
As they yearn for your support
As they yearn for your support.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
—-
Parallel worlds. The Radio is whispering coming war – cultural, civil, religious, racial. It’s in people’s eyes, there’s no love for strangers anymore, and suddenly they are everywhere.
Revenge. It’s time to correct history. Power. It’s time to attain victory. And it fills you with despair because humankind never learns. They wait a few Generations, build or buy more lethal weapons, radicalise themselves and their children some more. And then they try again.
Weapons of mis-communication; weapons of mass-Propaganda; weapons of mis-education; weapons of asocialization; weapons of radicalisation; weapons of mass-destruction. Weapons of war.
And if they fail again, they’ll think it’s because their weapons, or their tactics, were not lethal enough. They’ll never question their motives or their hatred. They’ll wait another couple of Generations, and build or buy even more lethal weapons, and perfect their tactics and strategies some more. And then try again. And again.
Until Humanity destroys itself. Completely.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Wach auf
Leise
Lass uns zusammen
Musik machen
Gemeinsam die Töne streicheln
Bis sie vor Glücke schreien
Lass uns mit nackten Zehen
Tanzen im zitterndem Silberstrahl
Des Mitternachtmondes
Bald kommt
Die aufsteigende Wärme der Sonne Wonne
Mit einem leisen Seufzen zergeht die Nacht
Und die Musik wird zum Tagtraum
Wellengleich beweg Dich
Auf und runter
Nach vorn nach hinten
Nach links und nach rechts rollen
Innig berühre die flüsternde Stimme
Das Leben ist ein Tanz für die
Die gemeinsam Musik machen.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
One land’s poor man
Is another land’s rich man
It’s all relative
How many meals do you need to be hungry?
One school’s teacher
Is another school’s student
It’s all relative
How much knowledge do you need to be ignorant?
One court’s free man
Is another court’s prisoner
It’s all relative
How many laws do you need to have injustice?
One era’s inventor
Is another era’s copycat
It’s all relative
One religion’s wise man
Is another religion’s fool
It’s all relative
One heart’s sorrow
Is another heart’s happiness
It’s all relative
One man’s woman
Is another woman’s man
It’s all relative
One nation’s outcast
Is another nation’s promised helper.
It all depends
On what you need
Some want the flesh of the fruit
Some crave its inner seed.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
What is it that makes people
Horny in the air?
Hard nipples take off
They lock themselves in the toilets
Climb to a higher orgasm –
Wet Bulge. Pull up the arm-rest
Lay a blanket over hands and laps
And transform the fear of flying
Into sexual energy – … until they Come
Back down, soft landing on hard earth.
Can you keep a secret, baby?…
We’re scared to death of flying
And loving it.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Where are you?
The police have looked high and low
Community watch and kind strangers near and far
Have tried your trail to follow
The orange tree we planted
Yields season after season bitter bitter fruits
That would turn sweet were you but here
To pick them off their roots
The children you lovingly bore
Daily older grow, as beautiful as you were
They ask where their mother is
Unable to comprehend how people disappear
I wish we hadn’t gone on that holiday
I wish you hadn’t taken that stroll
That night alone to watch the waves
The ensuing years have taken their toll
My thoughts spank of guilt
I should have been your guard on every walk
What happened, my love? Footsteps don’t talk
Time is a blackboard of fading chalk
Give me a sign of life
Calm my heart, let us know
You’re happy, even in the beyond somewhere
Saying goodbye, I love you in my soul
Strength is a luxury
But succour shall whisper quietly some day
All good things come together in their own day
In their own way, this I pray.
Waiting and waiting in vain
For you to return, to talk, share and to listen
Where are you, my dear? Your picture is silent
Written above it, that killing word, still: MISSING.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Che Chidi Chukwumerije 