Poems by Nancy Ndeke
Names and locations, heights and weights,
Longitudes and latitudes, titles and crowns
Prison reality embedded, in the merry name of jest
PIN numbers and secret codes, logarithms and matrixes
Birthdates and death dates, anniversaries and second attempts,
Whose kidding who with numerals of mystery that’s not so mysterious?
Whose hoodwinking who in the name of cards that work for flesh?
Dispense meds in ounces and fuel in litres
Zeroes ahead tell of the pocket power or none,
Your yatch and your jet, tax returns and liquidation,
Statistics and casualties, hiding the trauma of reality,
Soon and very soon, perhaps as soon as now,
Like a bad experiment at a zoo, or in like manner with darker ones of Nazi era,
We shall bow to numbered Kings with our chosen numerals,
Like factory emit of bottled drinks oozing in a line,
Without memory of yesterday, or plan for tomorrow,
Even the first man had a name and felt the need to name his woman
Argue as we may, tags are a means to demean, even spies know so
Each prophet like a project had a name for identity, however unsavory his mission,
Not specimen, neither candidate, or number XP2 stroke 2020,
We are a fantastic lot when it comes to fan, but is this loss of identity fun?
So a year is ending, and we shall count downwards to zero, where all else starts,
Goodbyes and welcome of what never goes anywhere except in our beautiful dreamy calendars,
Doors remain doors for a purpose,
To close in, to close out,
Choices remain our own,
Love is the language of the universe,
It keeps no doors,
Just blinking eye brows at the speeding hatred of children of love,
So a year has a tittle in numerals and events to boot,
If only we counted and quantified tears and groans of those our boots crushed?
If only we watched the reflection of our collective mirrors,
We would have seen the bleeding cracks of the nameless lost on the pavements of our doorsteps,
So a year is singing it’s swan song with the Ray’s of the sunset,
Taking stock of our hidden and public, for nothing is unknown to deity,
And as the doors of our life’s welcome what is already present,
Let’s each search within what redeems our existence,
And it’s not bounty of loot or highways named after us,
But the simple lifting of the fallen among those fate frowned upon,
And perhaps the new year would speak of a humanity that’s finally turning humane.
Highway jubilation, even audible sighs,
As uniformed pickpockets curse the emptiness of robbery space
Noise flew to the villages,
Where display of short term affections cuddle the smoky tents
Roasting, boasting and blasting of year long plan hutch
Laughter rings untruthfully loud
While for once,
The bridge has nothing to ferry
Unless that beggar and urchin under it
Who silently curse the emptiness
No one wins all,
Few loose all,
Those whose umbilical cords were swiped with nylon ropes
Look on with pity at the unclogged road
Knowing usual is on the way back
To plant anger and debtedness of cut throat living
On the highway where safety is a prayer
And justice is sold in crisp notes folded into tiny balls,
So traffic rules can rule right in your favor
While the crushed life is hurriedly ferried off,
By the inheritors of crime tax.
The only witness being the cold bulging pockets of giver and taker
And the blind beggar under the cold bridge.
For now, superhighways, enjoy the cleanliness of loneliness.