HE WAS A WEIGHTLIFTER

A monster of a man
World on his shoulders
Yet fragile is his heart
Go easy on him

He will lift world records
With muscle-rippling ease
But a heavy heart, a broken heart
Will weigh him down

His ego is no bigger than yours
And when he cuddles his little baby
His arms are just as gentle
Trembling hands, subtle fingers

He was a weightlifter
Now he’s down, leaden of heart –
Who will be the one to
Stroke his head and gently lift him up?

He is light as a feather if you ease his pain
Easy like a Sunday morning
Will melt in your hands like butter
Fly with you to the midnight moon, effortlessly.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.

SHE WAS A WEIGHTLIFTER

She was a weightlifter
They found it unseemly
But she was a shape-shifter
Their disdain was a lighter burden to bear
Than her fate.

Slum lady. Carried mud and bricks
Bore stones and sticks
Firewood, rusted water in weeping baskets
The stretch marks of impatient thirsty men
Bunched up her muscles.

Owned by all, never owned a thing
The madams’ slaps, the masters’ secrets
Nothing was too heavy a load to carry
To snatch, to clean, to jerk off –
Each jerk. Very ordinary.

Today, when she steps out unto the mat
Under the lights, there you see
Sunset in one eye, sunrise in the other –
It’s not heavy weights she’s lifting
She’s carrying hope.

– Che Chidi Chukwumerije.