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‘Sofi’- The Uncircumcised Curser

‘Sofi’- The Uncircumcised Curser

When a good man is planted in his grave, he does not germinate into a tree to give shade to his loved ones. Today we stand at this cemetery weeping as we lay to rest one of the realest people I have ever known in my entire life. The choir sings melodious tunes as though they we sent down by God himself as part of his disbelief that my dear friend has passed away. People from far and near have come to pay their homage to this great man. Tributes have been poured forth from mouths like water gashing out of the rock Moses struck in the wilderness. Even the President of the country is right here at the cemetery with us. Cameras are clicking and reporters are scribbling things in their notepads. This is indeed the funeral of a national hero. The priest raises his hand and a dead silence falls on the cemetery. Then with the trowel in his hands, he digs into the earth, pours the dirt on the polished oak wood coffin and says

Ashes to Ashes, Dust to Dust.

Well, I’m sure if wishes were horses, my friend ‘Sofi’ would wish his funeral was what I described above. But alas, just six of us are present to lay him to rest. The priest who I had to pay to perform the burial rites, the four young men who are the pallbearers, me and his one-eyed dog that looks like offspring of a bow-legged crossed-eyed bitch and one of her stray and starved lovers.  I met ‘Sofi’ as he’s popularly called throughout the village when I was in Middle School form 2. We were just being ourselves that day in the classroom when this man walks into the classroom. He looked dark and hard bodied like a copra that had its husk peeled off the shell and rubbed with a little bit of palm oil. When his shadow fell on the doorway, it was like a sculptured dark cloud had just been dropped right there. He walked in, scanned the room and walked to the empty desk at the back of the class and sat down without uttering a word. We looked at each other’s faces puzzlingly as though the answer to the question of who he was would pop out from someone’s face.  Then our class teacher entered the class and introduced him as our classmate. As the term progressed he and I became friends. I was the brains and he was the muscle. However he’s association with me had absolutely no effect on his intellectualism as he exhibited during one of our technical skills lessons.  A shovel was drawn on the blackboard and he was asked to identify what tool if was. Without hesitation, he shouted ‘Sofi’ with the confidence of a politician who was sure he had won an election and a smile that was like a piece of roasted yam that was puffed open by heat. The whole class erupted into a laughing zoo and thus, the name Sofi was conferred on him

The pursuit and the desire to make my life a better one took me out of the village whilst Sofi remained but whenever I was in town I made it a point to visit him at his home. Six months before his death, I heard that Sofi had won the lottery. It was said that, on the day he cashed in his win, he had a big party at home and had three fat Billy goats killed and prepared. Laughing gourds of foaming palmwine were order from Agbeko the famous tapper and the famous Minamiwoe wanyo boborbor troupe came to perform.  It is said that even the coronation party of the village chief was no match for Sofi’s party. It was under this party that my friend Sofi laid eyes on Dzidedi and like the saying goes, Wine comes in at the mouth and love comes in at the eye. On my next visit to the village, I was told Sofi was getting ready to be married. Which Sofi?  is it the Sofi I know who avoided women as a plague because his love advances was rejected by the young national service teacher posted to our school when we were in form four? How could a forty-eight year old man want to marry a twenty-two year old girl? Weren’t there more mature single women around? Truth be told, when I met Dzidedi, I was awed as though I had just seen the best magic trick performed. Her gait was rhythmic, her buttocks jiggled like that maracas during a charismatic praise session with each step she took and her breast looked firm like two freshly dug yam mounds laying side by side in the loose blouse she wore. And I told myself I understood why Sofi had fallen in love.

I watched in amazement how she came to sit of Sofi’s laps, played with his greying hair, tickled his ear lobes and both giggled. Instinctively I felt there was something weird about the relationship and when Sofi was seeing me off, I told him how I thought it was not a good idea to get married to Dzidedi. One could virtually see fumes coming out Sofi’s ears and nostrils like the exhaust pipe of Busy Boy’s bone shaker that traveled from the village to Ho twice every week. He accused me of being jealous of his success and progress in life and that I had just proven to him that I was not worthy of his friendship. I apologized to him for poking my nose into his affairs and went home.  And that was the last time I saw or spoke to my friend until I saw him hanging from a nylon rope on the huge mango tree at the entrance of the path that led to the farms.

It is said that, Dzidedi and her young lover duped him of his money under the pretense of helping him invest it in some gold business. Then one afternoon, he caught them in bed and when he confronted them, she ridiculed him publicly by calling him a foolish, impotent uncircumcised bed wetter.   Not able to withstand the laughing-stock he had become in the village, Sofi decided to end his life but not before he had walked stark naked from one end of the village to the other with his huge uncircumcised manhood and drooled scrotal sacs dangling left and right as he rained curses on Dzidedi and her lover saying that even the holiest of waters blessed by the Pope and angels would not render the curses impotent.

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Posted by on April 25, 2017 in Fiction

 

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Our Truth?

Our Truth?

The fragile stray dog is at it again
Licking its lover’s arse and howls to announce it
Now, we are supposed to follow suit
Lies are prostituted as virgin truths
which we foolishly enter a bidding war for
Blind to tongues sharper than bamboo blades slicing reputations
Our hard work is rendered valueless like gecko shit
Every now and then, they set fire to corn husks beneath our pot
And tell us it will cook our food
Then they hum commands at us because
Their mouths are stuffed with praise songs hearts know nothing of
Before our naked eyes, our progress is held by the neck and choked
And told to spit out patriotic songs rather than phlegm
Sadly we have become strangers in our own home
A position we are to gladly accept

 
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Posted by on March 23, 2017 in Poems

 

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Thoughts

Thoughts
Tonight I thought of you
Of how it would feel like
To lay together in the open and let the stars gaze at us
With your head on my chest
Listening to my heart’s soprano
As I run my hand through your hair
Between us, a loud silence that speaks
The language of our untamed love
Tonight I thought of you
Of whether the moon has relayed the message
Of how I miss you
Like a slut misses her period
My mind is pregnant with thoughts of you
This labor of love can be tough at times
So please come deliver me
Come, set my heart at ease
Tomorrow I will think about you
About your beaming smile that the sun carbon copied
I will wonder if you are also thinking about me
If your heart dances and smiles because of me
And whether just like me you drink from our memories’ fountain
I will think of all the things I want to tell you and why
Then conclude that, the best way to do so
Is to love you
s.k.g
 
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Posted by on January 2, 2017 in Poems

 

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War Song

War Song

Chant your war songs

Beat your war drums

Call out your ‘enemies’

Accuse them of the atrocities you committed

When you spilled the blood of your infant dreams

And let it be the precipitate of the war you wage

 

Chant your war songs

Beat your war drums

Draw your weapons and charge

Chase the shadows of your infant dreams that haunt you

Convince yourself that getting blown like debris in the wind

Is so right because everyone seems to follow the wind’s suit

Then, swear to yourself that being different is a luxury you cannot afford

 

Chant your war songs

Beat your war drums

Display your trophy of self-contempt under the disguise of smiles

Call yourself the phantom slayer and have songs composed for this

Brag about how you were a badass on the battlefield

Grasp for air and pause for dramatic effects as you tell the stories

But behind the scenes curse the fright your own shadow gives you.

 

Chant a new song

Change the rhythm of your drum beat

You have life, there is hope

Reunite with your inner self and chase after the elephants of your dreams

Hunt them with patience, for it is a mother of a beautiful child

Let your imaginations travel far and wide

Because traveling is learning

Refuse to plant your dreams by the roadside

And do not let them eat your food and forget your name

Always remember, no one ever succeeded without making a mistake or two.

Selikem T.K Geni 2016 ©

 
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Posted by on June 13, 2016 in Poems

 

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A tot of my Soul

A tot of my Soul

Two days ago I cried for young girl who had spread her wings as she did the fire dance

For very soon she would wish she could suffocate her flames

because too many men want to stick their hands into her stove

Even before she can learn to harness the power of her flames

Yesterday, I wailed for a young boy who did not know the power of his tongue and hands

He did not believe he had to speak life to his dreams as he builds them with his hands

Rather he grasps at the straws of other people’s dreams

Because he does not recognize the keys to unlock his dreams in his hands

This morning, I saw the pride of a man dragged through the market

With his fellow men lined up at both ends of the street

poking sticks at his dying dignity with charred compassion

which was poured into a gutter so it be washed away with the debris

This afternoon, I saw a mother’s compassion turn cold and ugly

She said the child was not her’s so she could not be his fairy godmother

Not even for a second so humanity could have hope

After all everyone for himself, God for us all

This Evening, I sit and mourn for my generation

Our present stares down on us as though we have a bad youthful marriage

Sons and daughters of warrior kings and queens who mark time rather than move forward

So let me pour out a tot of my soul to you so you gulp it down

Let the syncopation of memories’ heart beat draw you closer to the truth

Let the smell of burnt memories remind us of who we were and are supposed to be

For we are a generation of greatness now struck down by the disease of self-centeredness

What happened to our communal spirit that made us sit very close enough that we touched each others’ needs?

What happened to tearing a soft part of yourself and handing it over to others

Watch as they mold it and hand it over to you better than they found it?

What happened to the good life being the smiles we placed on each others’ faces

And the joy we etched deep in souls?

So let me pour you a tot of my soul to gulp down

Let me make it two and maybe, just maybe you’ll get drank enough

for this poem to resound in the ears of your heart

©Selikem Tenu. K Geni

 

 

 

 
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Posted by on June 3, 2016 in Poems

 

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Who we are

Who we are

This is for the one whose pride now lives at the refuse dump

And is constantly receiving hair cut advice from the vultures

The one whose dignity has been trampled on so many times

its closest relationship is with the patch ground on which it lies

This is for the one who has been told many times that beauty run

in the opposite direction when they first met

and that her ugliness drives the devil to accept Christ as his Lord and personal Savior

This is for the one whose fears have become visions

tied to the cloth of reality

This is for the one who feels lost in the maze of life

And feels his progress is taking him nowhere

This is for you

This is for me

This is for us

Wait!

Stop!

Breathe in!

Breathe out!

Smile!

Relax!

Take a good look at yourself, you are here for a reason

Let self-love be the wind the glides your sail to the land of self-worth

Gather your tools and make love to the fertile soils of your dreams

Let the refuse dump be compost for the flowers of your dreams

to bloom and pour perfume forth on the pestilence of ill advice.

Let your dignity’s domineering shadow be the only thing the patch ground sees

Fuel that light in your heart and let your beauty shine

For you are beautiful than you imagine

And please remember, you are the child of the centipede

Losing a limb will never cripple you.

 
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Posted by on April 29, 2016 in Poems

 

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Hush

Hush

Dedicated to all the Women who are QUIET about their ABUSE
Hush, woman don’t you cry
I am the last person to whom you will say goodbye.
So she cocoons herself in pain she tells no one about

 

Hush Woman don’t cry.
I love you that is why I beat you when you go wrong
I did not pay so much bride price for you to make such flimsy mistakes
So she accepts pain as love and believes she deserves it all.

 

Hush Woman don’t cry
I am the Lord of this house and so my word is final
Any action that contradicts mine deserves punishment
I am your god and you must bow to me
So she worships him out of fear and calls it love

 

Hush Woman don’t cry
You deserve all these, you stupid slut
Don’t even think of leaving me
If you do, I will hunt you down like the rat you are and kill you
This is not a threat, it is an assurance.
So she locks herself up in this doorless jail, believing she is unworthy of true love

 

Do not hush woman, please cry out.
Do not let your silence be where you bury your pain
Good times are not meant to be seasonal
Unlock that shackles in your mind because you deserve every bit of happiness
Break out of that cocoon of pain and fly out spreading those beautiful wings
There is nothing to be ashamed of, so speak out
Before your hush and hidden tears, leads you to the grave

Selikem Tenu K. Geni 2016 ©

 
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Posted by on April 22, 2016 in Poems

 

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