Yesterday, I worked with Wole Soyinka in his
farm; a farm of poetry where we harvested words
And sowed imagery like a spring of seedlings.
I kept pace with him in the field of words until
He smiled at me and shook my hand and laughed.
Last year, I sat with Femi side by side
In the dreaming school of familiar poetry.
His hair white and mine black and brave,
We were no match not at all but he still
Considered my boldness and courageous pen.
Today, I met John Pepper Clark at home,
He taught me the rudiments of my Pen.
He was such a lovely fellow to follow,
Disciplined but friendly when it comes
To who is who in the school of poetry.
Chimamanda Adichie showed me stars last
night, she said Kainene will be found soon but
The Purple Hibiscus shall stay in mind
To guide me through my journey of writing,
We laughed like mother and son till sleep stole
Our eyes and ran to the embalmed bed.
I sang with Graciano Enwerem at the Port,
He broke the rules of alliteration to my eyes.
His laughter I found in the legs of poetry,
We caressed the bleeding moon and tell
Stories we won’t be able to write in a million
Years to come when all is gone into ashes.
Eriata Oribhabor took a picture with me;
A picture with a tale of future to tell to all.
He was such a lovely father to father my muse,
We ran in and out in the beach for fun,
I think he saw the braveness in my art.
When I met my African Mother, Buchi,
The world stood still admiring our embrace.
She took my expression and hid it in her bosom,
I knew she still have them in her mind of minds.
I stole a fish of words from her face and asked
Her of Nnu Ego and Osha but she waved me down.
I never met Chinua Achebe at home,
I was told he went on a journey of no return
But his deeds stay in my eyes to harvest
Any time I need to learn and re- learn without
Falling on the stony rock of critics and haters.
I have part of his furs on my lashes of books.
Under the glowing glittering sky I met Niyi,
That black cultured man, a symbol of our
Cultural heritage, the cup that many drink from.
He gave me a big tuber of Yam from Ekiti,
I still have that Yam Osundare gave to me.
When I woke up this year from the seasonal
song, my diary reads goodness with good yams.
From the angle of hope I see signs of immortality
That history can’t exist without my name bravely
Carved on it with a golden medal that unites souls.
(c) John Chizoba Vincent 2016