THE IRONIC WHISPERER; OAU chronicle by Mide Benedict

Sometimes I wonder
How life can slander
The things that drench us in pride,
Turning them into waste
Like the wet intestine
Of a rotten timber that still has its root
Stuck in the soil.

Beside the posing ground,
Where the cries of “Passport!” clickers
Fuddled the air as one approached Oduduwa hall,
There, I met my memory’s memo.

The statue,
Giant, huge and raised a bit above the ground
Hawked by a flat platform,
Backed by a single-coloured chameleon.
Round its waist were joints of chain, married into another.
A Staff; tattooed with a face
Is crowned by a hen,
A hen whose legs are mythical creators.

Beads on its neck
Beads on its legs
A crown on its head,
And nakedness footwore its feet.

Under the shady wings of ancient Oduduwa hall,
It stood as years passed it by.
But this was the effigy of one called the far-off thing,
Allotted a space under a concreate shade and prestige.
And every night, when power does not cough, white light shines.

Before it, was another,
Though smaller in size and little
In sight,
Placed in a garland
Of a historical land
Its Agbada was a waterfall,
Pouring as it statically fell from the air.
It was raised above the ground
By a flat ceramic platform.
On its face was a round eyed spectacle
And on his head was its historical emblem,
A round shaped cap.
Two right-handed fingers of it
Thrust the eye of the wind
And in its stony shoes, it stood with time,
Side by side,
Under every weather that passed it by.
But this was the effigy of the one called the brilliant Yoruba warlord,
Allotted a stunning palace of flower
And placed under the sun
To be playmated with the wind and the rain
And every night, when power coughs and uncoughs,
Darkness becomes its cover cloth.

Perhaps life lives unlike life should live.
Perhaps, really unlike life should live.