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Isa Muhammad Inuwa

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THE HAITI QUAKE
MUTALLAB
SHE WAS CURED
SHE RESTS IN HEAVEN
A PINCH OF ART
RAMADAN FASTING(II)
HE’S NOT DEAD
A BIG BOW

THE HAITI QUAKE

The fateful Caribbean nation sinks!
As people wake up to watch
A mini-doomsday unfolds –
The earth cracks open and
Gulps down its burdens, in
The gory macabre of Haiti.

Buildings, Superstructures and
Automobiles are thrown down
Along with humans, buried
In debris and dust of edifices
Crushed into shattered garbage!

Cries and screams of desperate men
Trapped in deadly corridors of the
Gripping Catastrophe, are reciprocated
By hues and shrieks of frightened brothers
Fleeing the streets to safe haven, from
Unexpected, striking doomsday!

Has the world come to an end? Or
Are we witnessing yet another Tsunami?
As hundreds of thousands of lives perish –
Millions more writhe in agony and
Boil, in the earth’s melting magma!

But God must have been angered, by
The deeds of men who, in every hour,
Transgress and sin! -
Bloodshed here, carnage there!
Alas, we ought to repent and expiate
Our sins! Let’s extend our hands of
Help, to the people of Haiti.

MUTALLAB

Born in Africa, but
Brainwashed and taught in
The mega countries of the Europe
Both in academia and in militancy
Until when the grand ploy was
Hatched, the blame bounced back
To his dear motherland

Yet, only few people waited to
Think, or question this tyranny
Few people raised an eye-brow at
This belligerent tendency to
Paint us black and render us
As pariah, in the eyes of the world
Alas, everybody knows that
Nigeria is never a terror; instead,
America is a big one to show!

Abdulmutallab was a boy used -
This was a boy found handy, to
Cook up a sinister cabal, via
A grand conspiracy machine -
He was there for education, but
After collecting his raw dollars
For the tuition fees, he was veered
to
The breeding ground of terrorism
Right in the so-called European
Citadel of learning

Now you can imagine the irony
Of an elite child, pampered and
Brought up spoilingly –
Now you can see the ugly result
Of this class egoism
I think it’s time, we halt the
malaise
It’s also time, we resist this
Blatant injustice and oppression!

SHE WAS CURED

Doctors could do nothing, when
The Almighty Healer intervened –
Nurses had to hands off and
Put aside all healing tools and
Resign to fate, as the healing
Went divine!

I dreaded the pitiful scenario, when
Mummy lied in three days coma and
Gasped hard for breath, with
Broken leg and mauled head
She was in bed, a victim of
Two reckless motorbike riders, who
Hit her to death!

Hospital support of oxygen hose and
Water bag for rehydration failed to
Revive her back to normal, as
All intervention bid failed -
Treatment went divine!
The cure of death, inevitably
Forced the sick register to close!

When the angels came to intervene -
Every ailment was finally cured
For in the life yonder
She will be sick no more -
She will be in bliss and
Will be nourished
In a life different from this

Drenched in our tears of
Sympathy and bonded in love
We moved her body to
The unavoidable, final abode
Where God, her Creator
Loved her the most -
Mum was invited to Heaven!

Yet I was grateful, when
I heard her uttered the words –
LA ILAHA ILLALLAH …
As her last words on earth;
I knew she was forgiven all her sins
She was blessed by God and
She was finally cured!

SHE RESTS IN HEAVEN

On her third day
I saw my late Mum
In the midst of Paradise
Beaming with smile and
Eating an apple

The apple, as big as
Traditional water pot
In my locality –
I thought it was the fruit
Of her five daily prayers
Performed, while on earth

On the seventh day
I saw her eating
A jumbo sized water-melon
Like a large, un-severed,
Calabash gourd –
I thought it was the yield
Of her month-long fasting
Every year

On the fortieth day
I saw her holding a jug
As big as our earthly bucket,
Waiting to collect her portion
Of milk supply –
Then, a green bird flew in and
Whispered to her;
Two Angels appeared and
Opened the bank of
The milk river

I though the milk was
The reward from prayers and alms
Of relations and well wishers
For the repose of her soul -
In the other hand,
She held a fresh olive branch
With fruits ever fresh and big
Like Ostrich egg –
An allusion of peace of mind
She enjoyed here and hereafter

On the hundredth day
I saw her lying on a golden bed –
Having a siester and
Resting from ordeals and
Travails encountered on earth –
I was pleased and convinced that
Forever, she rests in Heaven

A PINCH OF ART

My poetic flair pinches
Let me unzip my bag of art
For jubilating words to jump
To the playground
For a gymnastic jilt!

My poetic flair pinches
Let me drop soft stanzas
Like a generous guinea-fowl
Eking out eggs!

My poetic flair pinches
Let me toy with words
Like a professional footballer
Juggling with ball!

My poetic flair pinches
Let my lines walk in style
Like a limping, Lilliputian lad
Lolloping a leg!

My poetic flair pinches
Let my lines bounce bold
Like a raging rough wrestler
Displaying muscles!

My poetic flair pinches
Let me brandish my biro
Like a gangling Grandpa
Dangling a gourd!
Like a wallowing world warrior
Waving a wand!

My poetic flair pinches
Let my words speak wisely
For in a poetic forum
I am not a fool!

My poetic flair pinches
Let my lines flow
Like a drove of doves
Like flying fowls

RAMADAN FASTING ( II )

Hail the believers as bones are
Debilitated with hunger
Bodies, withered with thirst and
Souls purged of carnality!

Piety and chastity -
The apex goals in view
In soul's metamorphosis from
Mundane to spiritual -
Believers befriend the Angels
For themselves are semi-Angels

In the rare endeavour of
Self mortification, bodies are
On the foreground of
Morality, checked!
Souls on the anvil of piety,
Hammered!

Yet in faith, there's no
Questioning the pain -
Hard endeavour is embedded in
Joyous acclamation of rewards
And forgiveness -

ARRAYYAAN ,
The special gate, shall
In the Hereafter swing open
For the fasting ones to,
In the Paradise dwell!

HE’S NOT DEAD
(For Sheikh Ja’afar)

Sheikh Ja’afar is not dead
And behold, I show you
I show you where he lies
In cozy slumber -

Here lies he for three years in
Peace and look at his shroud
It’s white as ever -

His smiley, radiant face
His body laced in lush black hair
You wouldn’t say he’s
Dead

His name remains Sheikh Ja’afar
Mahmud Adam, Imam of Ibn Affan
Mosque in Kano

In after life,
He retains his name
As he was hitherto called
On earth

You wouldn’t say he is dead, for
You could still recognize him –
His semblance like pendulum,
On his very face, dangles

You wouldn’t say he’s dead
A martyr like a bridegroom,
In his grave, sleeps and

On the Last Day, he would
Awake and say
Who his killers are

They wouldn’t deny it
They wouldn’t hide out
They wouldn’t escape and
By divine puissance, they would
Aptly be chastised!

A BIG BOW
(For Late Abubakar Rimi)

Arise!
Oh Rimi, arise!
Arise and watch your funeral
By your very self –
For no one tells it better
As mammoth crowd still
Throngs you in death as
You used to be in life

Nay, this tumultuous gathering is
Rare and surpasses those in your
Life time -
This stampede, this commotion is
Bigger than the mass rally
You knew

Arise and tell your story by your self
Tell us about the robbers’ ambush
About your cough, about your
Perspiration and about your
Your final bow

Arise and watch your funeral -
People and people upon people
Men, women, children, rich and
Poor, pour out to pay tribute
As your corpse moves to grave, through
Choked up streets of Kano

Some wail, some invoke
God’s mercy and favour
Others extol your virtues and
None utters anything bad, for –
All your critics in life turn to
Praise givers in death

They recall your penchant for
Fearlessness, straight talk and
Enduring public projects
They miss your style of politics,
Tinged with ample jokes and
Dub you “hero”, “pacesetter” and
“Giant”

We all are touched by
This rare charisma
This rare social magnetism that
Trail you to the last bow -
Now, tell us Rimi, whether
For all these, you are forgiven