James David Rubadiri

James Rubadiri HOME
James David Rubadiri Thoughts after Work Clear laughter of African children Rings loud in the evening: Here around this musty village Evening falls like a mantle, Gracing in all a shroud of peace. Heavily from my office I walk To my village, My brick government compound, To my new exile. In this other compound I would no longer intrude. I perch over a chasm, Ride a storm I cannot hold, And so must pass on quietly The laughter of children rings loud Bringing back to me Simple joys I once knew. An African Thunderstorm From the west Clouds come hurrying with the wind Turning sharply Here and there Like a plague of locusts Whirling, Tossing up things on its tail Like a madman chasing nothing. Pregnant clouds Ride stately on its back, Gathering to perch on hills Like sinister dark wings; The wind whistles by And trees bend to let it pass. In the village Screams of delighted children, Toss and turn In the din of the whirling wind, Women, Babies clinging on their backs Dart about In and out Madly; The wind whistles by Whilst trees bend to let it pass. Clothes wave like tattered flags Flying off To expose dangling breasts As jagged blinding flashes Rumble, tremble and crack Amidst the smell of fired smoke And the pelting march of the storm. Begging Aid Whilst our children Become smaller than guns, Elders become big Circus Lions Away from home. Whilst the manes age In the Zoos That now our homelands Have become, Markets of leftovers, Guns are taller Than our children. In the beggarhood Of a Circus That now is home, The whip of the Ringmaster Cracks with a snap That eats through The backs of our being. Hands stretching In a prayer Of submission In a beggarhood Of Elders delicately Performing the tightrope To amuse the Gate For Tips That will bring home Toys of death.

Thoughts after Work

Clear laughter of African children
Rings loud in the evening:
Here around this musty village
Evening falls like a mantle,
Gracing in all a shroud of peace.
Heavily from my office
I walk
To my village,
My brick government compound,
To my new exile.
In this other compound
I would no longer intrude.
I perch over a chasm,
Ride a storm I cannot hold,
And so must pass on quietly
The laughter of children rings loud
Bringing back to me
Simple joys I once knew.

An African Thunderstorm

From the west
Clouds come hurrying with the wind
Turning sharply
Here and there
Like a plague of locusts
Whirling,
Tossing up things on its tail
Like a madman chasing nothing.

Pregnant clouds
Ride stately on its back,
Gathering to perch on hills
Like sinister dark wings;
The wind whistles by
And trees bend to let it pass.

In the village
Screams of delighted children,
Toss and turn
In the din of the whirling wind,
Women,
Babies clinging on their backs
Dart about
In and out
Madly;
The wind whistles by
Whilst trees bend to let it pass.

Clothes wave like tattered flags
Flying off
To expose dangling breasts
As jagged blinding flashes
Rumble, tremble and crack
Amidst the smell of fired smoke
And the pelting march of the storm.

Begging Aid

Whilst our children
Become smaller than guns,
Elders become big
Circus Lions
Away from home.

Whilst the manes age
In the Zoos
That now our homelands
Have become,
Markets of leftovers,
Guns are taller
Than our children.

In the beggarhood
Of a Circus
That now is home,
The whip of the Ringmaster
Cracks with a snap
That eats through
The backs of our being.

Hands stretching
In a prayer
Of submission
In a beggarhood
Of Elders delicately
Performing the tightrope
To amuse the Gate
For Tips
That will bring home
Toys of death.