Poetry: In Memory of Libya Again!

Journal…
Sometimes, when I sit in the ashes of my problems,
I begin to recount the troubles I have seen.
I remember in 2002 when a Tsunami visited,
did our dreams drown?
Yes, they came back with a sound of thunderー
roaring was how children painted it
on the canvass of lost homes and families.
I think it was somewhere in Gaza.
In one day a Saddam Hussein died,
Osama Bin Laden went to visit him after he dragged Muammar Ghaddaffi…

Man…
Did I leave home for greener pastures?
Yes, I travelled through the teeth of decisions.
Did I leave my family behind so I’d make them proud?
Yes, I left them hope less for me and my desires.
Did I learn the tricks of running?
Yes, I will never be caught like Jonah. God is a blind sky.
Did I think it will be beastly easy?
No, nothing good comes easy.
I have to travel to burn my passion under the moon, the rain, the sun.
I will even drink the sand and eat sweat….

Again…
Libya is a mother dealing with her frustrations,
she is the heel chasing the wind.
She found a house and became busy buildingー
holes in our perfect floor, raising the tiles quietly.
Libya is a nonchalant Father with a whip winning.
We see nobody holding, but hear the whip singing.
I’m tired of the scented house of what I still call food
heating from a pot the world will condemn.

Here…
Mama Chioma is just like Libya
killing the dreams and covering the holes of Lydia.
Libya looks like Aunty Lola,
making Dami’s nyash popular than coca-cola.
Papa Junior oversees like Libya is in his eyes
when he told Solo to pick the soap on the bathroom floor as a price.
I don’t know what you call what you call
but I cannot change a name for what it was,
especially the chains cuffing Africa,
mastered in Africa
and justified by the quiet wind of black cruelty in Africa.
Until a black man is free, freedom has a color.

Ruddapoet

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