Sing of green
For soon it’ll be gone to dust
A memory of autumn’s ancestor
Saying I used to know a lass
And her name was Summer
Yet look underneath her smile
Yes I mean her brightest smile
Where a shadow sweet as secret sorrow
Suckled on her honey lips
And read my thoughts of you
Then sing with me, sing of green
From the caverns of throat
Dry hoarse tears, from depths of wrong
And right, let the hordes of your
Passion shout with song!
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Your love was a noon dance
Abruptly torn out of the startled wind
And then your heart beat
Sorrows are stepping in rhyme with the breathless wind
They say it was an African evening
Moonrays on my yesterday, hush little girl
I can hear your sobs five thousand kilometres away
For night unites what day divides
Dreams reveal what the heart is hiding
I know you miss me still
Those morning strolls underneath the bougainvillea
Golden teardrops bloomed along the empty street
The hibiscus was our only guardian
The day you became a woman and I a man.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Today I looked again
Through the rain and saw
The sun, but the sun wept
And it was the rain
Again
So I let the sun wet me
And every love that met me
Will never again forget me
The source of your flowing pain
Your sun, your happiness
And your rain.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
THE MOURNERS came, with lots of noise and tears, crying their dry eyes out. No one stopped them. They were left to wail and weep, even though they made all that din.
And the merry-makers, theirs was even more dramatic, their lives are simple, they simply make merry. It does not matter the occasion which has brought them together. Their occupation is to sing and be happy, that is their job, their life. In large numbers they came out to lighten up the place, all three categories of them – the clowns, the eaters and the musicians – merrymaking from dawn until everyone else is gone.
And then of course my old friends, drawn out of the distant mists of childhood, reappeared with appropriately long faces. They murmured here and there about a few breaches of tradition but generally they held their peace. Rice and stew were very plenty, palm wine flowed as if the very trees wept, drowning their complaints in their throats; they left everybody alone and except for their ponderous thoughts nobody remembered their presence.
Two T.V. reporters with their camera men, a few newspaper journalists, a couple of ministers and princes, a former president, a galaxy of celebrities, a throng of socialites and a pride of leaders. Soon the whole place was turned from a place of solemn silence to something like the setting for a television talk-show. Who was going to be interviewed? The departed spirit? I chuckled; good that no-one heard me.
The few people who knew me well wondered at all the noise, all the crowd. Could I, who had so dearly nourished simplicity and quiet while still alive, have really wished my departure to trigger this breach of it? They tried to voice their discontent, but my relatives silenced them with the counter-claim that I had always said that everyone was allowed to do as they wished, and so they did not feel it right to disobey my injunction upon my departure.
Clergy of different religions dragged the aura of their history into my home and solemnly spewed prayers into the air, while everyone closed their eyes and kept on chewing their food. And the liars. They were everywhere, telling lies. The gamblers were gambling. The drunkards were drinking. And the lies the liars told were shattering to the core, for the liars had once been my friends.
But, with love, with compassion, my eyes did rest on one or two visitors in whose heart I saw pain at my departure, in whose eyes I saw the glittering pearls of true tears ever and again wiped away with a sigh. I was sad for them, I wished they could feel the touch of my hand on their shoulder, hear my voice as I whispered to them, I’m still alive.
But what can you do? Each person will react in his own wto death, the victor. Each, according to his or her nature, will bring their character to the fore upon your departure and, symphony or cacophony, there is nothing you can do about it, not anymore.
And so I did not stay there long. I had known it would be like this – who doesn’t? And I had made her promise, she who I loved, who I love, promise me, yes I had made her promise me that she would take my body away, far away. And far away, in the heart of the beautiful woods, she and the children we bore, now adults, and our closest closest friends, they stood in a circle around my body. And though they did not see me, they sensed me, sensed that I was there, standing too in the circle with them, our unbroken circle of love. Far away from the noise and noisy thoughts of the world.
One of them played a flute, and the flute was enough, and spoke the language of our hearts; and every thought they thought of me was a thought of love, and my soul was full. And my spirit sang.
And soon the body, old and tired, rested deep in the cool depth of mother earth. There was a prayer my love was praying, and that was when I heard it, the other flute, the heavenly flute, it came from far away, from high high above, gripped my heart, and I saw the way home. At that moment her eyes opened and her love held me one more time, then with a gentle whimsical sigh she let me go.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.y
The moment she stopped being a chimera and became a human woman, memory and experience kicked in – my fascination waned, my hot blood cooled, my wild pursuit slowed down, and I hesitated… – Do I really want a real woman? Where is my chimera? Give me back my chimera. I want a strange thing that haunts my imagination and promises the unknown and knocks me out of my senses and makes me feel strange things. She looked at me and shook her head and said: Be careful what you wish for; learn to be grateful for the simple things you get.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
If I wrote seventeen poems
In one word
Would you understand my language?
If I wrote one word
Sung one love-song
In seventeen poems
Would you understand my language?
What if they were eight?
What if they were eighteen?
If every human smile were a poem
Every laugh a song
Every look a promise
If every human word were silence
You would not need seventeen poems
To understand me
Just one.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
There is a Nigerian saying
What a child cannot see from a treetop
An adult can see from the ground
They usually say it with a gentle smile
The boy that I was, the child now in me
Was nourished by my mother’s love
While the man I was becoming, who now I am
Was nurtured by my father’s severity
So when they say true love is severity
And severity is sometimes the truest of love
I guess I know now, in retrospect,
What they mean to say between the lines
It is impossible to see both sides –
Day and Night – simultaneously
You have to experience them one by one
And then piece it together in your mind.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Transported by the tides of love
Inspired by the love of One
I sat down in a cove,
All alone.
My heart gushed forth with deepest love
For I love two women, not one;
Thus pause I in a cove,
All alone.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
White men complain
Of losing their women
Black women complain
Of losing their men
White women complain
Of losing their men
Asian men complain
Of losing their women…
From race to race
Place to place
Everyone is sure
Everyone is impure
I guess we’re all lost
I guess we’re all found
I guess we’re all free
I guess we’re all bound
I guess we all complain
I guess we’re all afraid
I guess we all know
How best to get laid.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
The light of the moon uncovers the night
Sends a shiver across the fur of grass
A sleeping tree awakens, turns
Reaches out with its strong, slow branches
Bristling with leaves
The wind suddenly holds its breath, in the hush
The night beats faster
The earth yearns harder, as clouds quickly gather
And the rain softens the dark.
– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.
Che Chidi Chukwumerije 