WOLE SOYINKA
"Civilian and Soldier"
____________________ 

My apparition rose from the fall of lead,

Declared, 'I am a civilian.' It only served

To aggravate your fright. For how could I

Have risen, a being of this world, in that hour

Of impartial death! And I thought also: nor is

Your quarrel of this world.

You stood still

For both eternities, and oh I heard the lesson

Of your traing sessions, cautioning;

Scorch earth behind you, do not leave

A dubious neutral to the rear. Reiteration

Of my civilian quandary, burrowing earth

From the lead festival of your more eager friends

Worked the worse on your confusion, and when

You brought the gun to bear on me, and death

Twitched me gently in the eye, your plight

And all of you came clear to me.

I hope some day

Intent upon my trade of living, to be checked

In stride by your apparition in a trench,

Signalling, I am a soldier. No hesitation then

But I shall shoot you clean and fair

With meat and bread, a gourd of wine

A bunch of breasts from either arm, and that

Lone question; do you friend, even now, know

What it is all about?

WOLE SOYINKA

"I think it rains"

____________________

I think it rains

That tongues may loosen from the parch

Uncleave roof-tops of

the mouth, hang

Heavy with knowledge

I saw it raise

The sudden cloud, from ashes.

Settling

They joined in a ring of

grey; within,

The circling spirit.

O it must rain

These closures on the mind, blinding us

In strange despairs, teaching

Purity of sadness.

And how it beats

Skeined transparencies on wings

Of our desires, searing dark longings

In cruel baptisms.

Rain-reeds, practised in

The grace of yielding, yet unbending

From afar, this, your conjugation with my earth

Bares crouching rocks.

WOLE SOYINKA

"Telephone Conversation"

____________________

The price seemed reasonable, location

Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived

Off premises. Nothing remained

But self-confession. "Madam" , I warned,

"I hate a wasted journey - I am African."

Silence. Silenced transmission of pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,

Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled

Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was, foully.

"HOW DARK?"...I had not misheard...."ARE YOU LIGHT OR VERY DARK?" Button B. Button A. Stench

Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.

Red booth. Red pillar-box. Red double-tiered

Omnibus squelching tar.

It was real! Shamed

By ill-mannered silence, surrender

Pushed dumbfoundment to beg simplification.

Considerate she was, varying the emphasis-

"ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT" Revelation came

"You mean- like plain or milk chocolate?"

Her accent was clinical, crushing in its light

Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted

I chose. "West African sepia"_ and as afterthought.

"Down in my passport." Silence for spectroscopic

Flight of fancy, till truthfulness changed her accent

Hard on the mouthpiece "WHAT'S THAT?" conceding "DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS." "Like brunette."

"THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?"

"Not altogether.

Facially, I am brunette, but madam you should see the rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet.

Are a peroxide blonde. Friction, caused-

Foolishly madam- by sitting down, has turned

My bottom raven black- One moment madam! - sensing

Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap

About my ears- "Madam," I pleaded, "wouldn't you rather

See for yourself?"

WOLE SOYINKA

"Your Logic Frightens Me, Mandela"

____________________

Your logic frightens me, Mandela,

Your logic frightens me. Those years

Of dreams, of time accelerated in

Visionary hopes, of savouring the task anew,

The call, the tempo primed

To burst in supernovae round a “brave new world”!

Then stillness. Silence. The world closes round

Your sole reality; the rest is… dreams?

Your logic frightens me.

How coldly you disdain legerdemains!

“Open Sesame” and—two decades’ rust on hinges

Peels at touch of a conjurer’s wand?

White magic, ivory-topped black magic wand,

One moment wand, one moment riot club

Electric cattle prod and club or sjambok

Tearing flesh and spilling blood and brain?

This bag of tricks, whose silk streamers

Turn knotted cords to crush dark temples?

A rabbit punch sneaked beneath the rabbit?

Doves metamorphosed in milk-white talons?

Not for you the olive branch that sprouts

Gun muzzles, barbed-wire garlands, tangled thorns

To wreathe the brows of black, unwilling christs.

Your patience grows inhuman, Mandela.

Do you grow food? Do you make friends

Of mice and lizards? Measure the growth of grass

For time’s unhurried pace?

Are you now the crossword puzzle expert?

Chess? Ah, no! Subversion lurks among

Chess pieces. Structured clash of black and white,

Equal ranged and paced? An equal board? No!

Not on Robben Island. Checkers? Bad to worse

That game has no respect for class or king-serf

Ordered universe. So, scrabble?

Monopoly? Now, that…! You know

The game’s modalities, so do they.

Come collection time, the cards read “White Only”

In the Community Chest. Like a gambler’s coin

Both sides heads or tails, the ’Chance’ cards read:

GO TO GAOL. GO STRAIGHT TO GAOL. DO NOT PASS ’GO’.

DO NOT COLLECT A HUNDREDTH RAND. Fishes feast,

I think, on those who sought to by-pass ‘GO’

On Robben Island.

Your logic frightens me Mandela, your logic

Humbles me. Do you tame geckos?

Do grasshoppers break your silences?

Bats’ radar pips pinpoint your statuesque

Gaze transcending distances at will?

Do moths break wing

Against a light-bulb’s fitful glow

That brings no searing illumination?

Your sight shifts from moth to bulb,

Rests on its pulse-glow fluctuations—

Are kin feelings roused by a broken arc

Of tungsten trapped in vacuum?

Your pulse, I know, has slowed with earth’s

Phlegmatic turns. I know your blood

Sagely warms and cools with seasons,

Responds to the lightest breeze

Yet scorns to race with winds (or hurricanes)

That threaten change on tortoise pads.

Is our world light-years away, Mandela?

Lost in visions of that dare supreme

Against a dire supremacy of race,

What brings you back to earth? The night-guard’s

Inhuman tramp? A sodden eye transgressing through

The Judas hole? Tell me Mandela,

That guard, is he your prisoner?

Your bounty threatens me, Mandela, that taut

Drum-skin of your heart on which our millions

Dance. I fear we latch, fat leeches

On your veins. Our daily imprecisions

Dull keen edges of your will.

Compromises deplete your act’s repletion—

Feeding will-voided stomachs of a continent,

What will be left of you, Mandela?