Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

Poems by Kabedoopong Piddo Ddibe’st

 

MAN, YOU ARE NO MAN

Man,
You are no man
Being beastly!

—Whack!
Man,
You are no man
Opening your legs on a woman,
Opening your calloused palms
The roughcast of your hands,
To whack that beautiful woman
Whose mother’s house you crawled
Into with your goaty knees
To beg her her love,
To beg for her mother’s favour,
To beg for her father’s favour
To let you take her to your house,
To let you take Anyadwee home.

Man,
You are no man
Displaying me your bony chest
Such impenetrable forest of chest hair;
To exert your manly power
Of your muscular biceps
To wipe off her last beauty
From her face,
You, man, are no man!

You are no man
To overuse her beauty
And precious body,
Leaving the dregs of Kwete,
And try to dump her
Into the dustbin of history
Now that your trade is done.

Listen here,

The dregs of beer still gives the Lajalata,
But whose daughter do you want to leave as Lajalata?

Man,
You are no man
With your manly bushy moustache
That if you eat Malakwang,
Your mouth resembles the pit
Of a pit latrine,
Or the tail of a colobus monkey,
Or your brother’s chin, the he-goat.

You are no man
Exercising your body strength
And exhibiting your boxing skills,
Turning her into your punching bag;
Man,
If you desire to fight,
Go face Golola Moses,
The food basket kick boxer;
But if you dare lay your hands
And pluck your tongue again
On the daughter of the woman
Who filtered you from the dirt of woes,
Man, you are no man!

You are no man
If to this century
Of the western civilisation
That has come to our African doors,
With all its goodness,
You still look down upon a woman
Like a politician
Climbs to the up most ladder
And looks up to thank God,
And then spits down on his voters
And laughs all the way to the bank;
And so you with your disdainful looks
Of their dirty games,
You dare undermine her intelligence
And strength,
That, perhaps, surpass yours a thousand times
But you dare spit on her
Your acidic salivas,
And keep her under your manly cultural boots
That kick even her most kindest love!
Don’t dare raise your hand upon her,
Oh, don’t you dare shout at her
Like you work in an industrial area,
Man.
A woman must rise and stand,
Man, you must understand…

That you are no man
If you both return home
From the day’s fatiguing work,
But thereafter, you sit back
And begin to shamelessly bark
Like the Mad Dog of Middle East
That broke loose from its chains;
Ordering “Let there be!”
Let there be bathing water,
And there is the bathing water;
Let there be drinking water,
And there is the drinking water,
Let there be a freshly cooked food,
And there is the freshly cooked food,
Let there be freshly washed clothes,
And the woman let them all be;
As for you man,
You sit cross gartered like Malvolio,
With the wise leg on top of the foolish one,
And you beat your leg,
Neg-neg, neg-neg, neg-neg!
Still you bark, bark, bark!
All dogs bark but some seldom but bite,
Like you, Mr. No Man.

Look,
On your woman’s back,
There is a baby straightening itself
Like a swampy frog,
Swimming in mucus and salivas,
Shrieking like an evening cricket,
Or like a police siren
Hurrying up down to disperse with live bullets
And teargas those bunches—
Those useless protesters of stolen votes.
Man, you are no man!

You are no man
Counting each piece of meat
In the woman’s cooking pot;
Picking the chicken gizzard,
Telling her it’s men’s part.
Man, are you a wizard?

What is that shrieking noise I hear?
Your woman again,
Man, you are no man!
You spin her hands behind her
Like you’re plucking maize from its stem!
I hear you shouting:
A woman is a mere woman!
A woman is a man’s punching bag,
A man’s pillow are her breasts,
A man’s handkerchief is her palm,
A man’s bed are her thighs,
A man’s blanket is her soft skin,
And her lips are his lollipops.
Man,
You are no man
Hiding in a pair of trousers!
I am the donkey that spoke
If you want to know me;
I am the voice in the neighborhood.
A man is a house, a woman is a home,
A woman is a hungry hen
Feeding her chicks on her grains,
Only eating left overs in the redness
Of the setting sun.,
Give a woman her rights today,
And you will save your better day.

But man,
You are no man,
A womanly man,
A coward,
A bully,
A downpressor,
A greedy Napoleon,
For I still hear shrieking of the woman’s nose.

And you are no man
Looking at your daughter,
So beautiful and tender,
But as a Kraal of Cattle,
And your drinking bottle,
A dowry you expect too soon,
Which forces her out of school.

You are no man
Disappearing to drink by dawn,
And returning nightly,
By the help of roadside grasses,
Ordering for food
Before you reach the compound,
The food for which you left no money.
Your head is strong,
Your heart is hard,
Rocks are softer,
You dare order!
Your wife is a mortar,
And you’re the pestle,
Pounding her each time you desire;
Threshing her with your well-sharpened tongue;
Like she’s your finger millet,
The spear of your tongue
Pierces her from one side to the other,
Trumpeting insults,
You count insults like accountants count money,
From her to dogs,
From dogs to her mother,
Likening her to a bitch
That gave birth to quadruplets;
And the spear of your tongue
Is like a gun in the hands
Of a mad man,
Wod p’ Paboo,
You are but no man.

 

The Forbidden Fruits

Woman,
Get behind me and
Serve me the gizzard,
That part is men’s.

My mere housewife,
Those diamond chicken eggs,
Those geese and ducks,
Those turkeys and chickens,
Those cat fishes and Bush rats,
Those foods are men’s.

My slave Queen,
Those porks and snails,
Those seafoods and plantains,
Those meat and cocoyam,
Those mutton and chicken heads
Grow women’s tails;
They are men’s;
Since they are men’s, I am a man,
So they are mine.

Woman,
Eat this, not that!
Eating eggs deafens your ears;
And eating chicken
Brings you bald patched head!
Rat fats pour out your stomach;
And eating chicken kills your mother;
Drinking Kwete adds your tears to cry
When I am back tonight
From relaxing my mind.

You woman,
Don’t eat these delicious foods,
They upset women’s heads.
If you eat the forbidden fruits,
You’ll surly die.
Lie awake beneath my boots
Till I wake up from my sleep.

 

DEATH ANNOUNCEMENT

Dear listeners,
Turn to listen to the Sunday News
Coming to you from Opuk Republic FM,
Read to you by me;
“Mr. You-Will-Agree-That The Squirrel’s
Head
Is Small, But Enough For Supper”

First, news in bulletins:

Three Yellowbirds shot dead.
The Lion warns animals
Who are musicians,
Or traditional leaders,
And religious leaders
To stay away from politics
This coming wet election season;
And finally, a cock hacks his wife
To death over a grain of millet
On the past Women’s Day.

Now news in detail.

The Night Owl,
The Night Owl,
With deep sorrow announces
For the death of this beloved brothers,
Who passed away in a bomb attack
On the Eve of Women’s Day.

The deceased victims
Had gone to have a luncheon
In a hotel which name
Was found as Red Peppers Imperial Hotel
In the city of Frogs Croak Forest.

They were found without heads,
And the Alshaabab accepted blankly
The allegation that they did the smart job;
And said they will bomb
The important city again soon
The moment the chicks sleep.

Two splinters of Slingshot Bombastic Missiles
Were found floating in one of their brains.

The Funeral Chairman,
Mr. Stripped Rat
And the bereft family, thus,
Send the announcement
To the following birds and animals:

Mr. Bat of Poverty City,
Mr. Hawk of Upper Kituba Roots Ward,
Hon. Black Crow and his brother,
Hon. Hare of the Next Election,
And their beloved wives,
Mrs. Violence and Vengeance,
Respectively.
Further announcement goes to:
Mr. Hyena King’s Riffle,
And Mr. Baldheaded Vulture Innocent
Of ‘He-Killed-Women-With-Mourning’ village;
All relatives, in-laws and friends.

All the mourners are requested
To come in mournful numbers
With table salt and red peppers,
As the bodies of the dead
Will be laid to rest
In their ancestral place,
The Stomach Coffins,
To avoid their rotten smell,
And to leave lands for the UN Refugees
Whose lands were grabbed from Apaa
By the current regime.

Dear, listeners,
This brings us to the news end;
Thanks for listening!
Catch me again
For the 8pm evening news.
Bye bye for now,
I remain “Mr. You-Will-Agree-That-The-Squirrel’s-Head
Is-Small-But-Enough-For-Supper”.
Stay tuned to 101, Opuk Republic FM.

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