Banquet Bangui


Bangui,

You have maybe peopled your recipe
Too much, with Amen and Inshallah tongues
All atabled in five courses with dripping bayonets.
Pause. Let us count the bloody tines of your forked bayonets:

N’Dele and Bamingui
Kabo and Kaga-Bandoro
Damara and Sibut
Dekoa and Sam Ouandya
Ouadda and Bria
Bambari and Alinao…

Oh, oh
Bangui’s kindergarten even with no counting sticks, must surely still have one
Sane teacher-madam teaching table manners –
‘We don’t learn to count 1, 2, 3 using dead people, we don’t’.

Bangui, Afrika’s navel,
You have burped…you must change
Diet!

© Oluoch-Madiang’, March, 2015

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On the art of making the best decision before seducing the most handsome man you have ever set your eyes upon – a poem


Wait

.

.

.

Wait

.

.

.

Wait until,

.

He opens his mouth.

Wait until he opens his mouth!

Wait until he opens his mouth!

Wait until he opens his mouth!

Wait.

Wait.

Wait until,

He opens his mouth.

© Oluoch-Madiang’, 2016.

The Spider Sipping Flavored Yoghurt


There must have been a time when cats were real men, and hunted
All mice with fork, clenched jaws and scarlet thunder
Beyond every domestic nook and hole, running
Them to the groveling penury of old church,

Or so the spider thinks as she sips DOOM-odorless flavored
Yoghurt from the depths of his fresh mosquito catch.
Yes? No? Really? Ow,
It probably then is that compound cataracts afflict her eyes,

Or her gated, apartment web is so lowly architected that
Fad cancer gives her, at her perched dining table, visions of
Sissy cats acornered,

Wailing to the wind for salvation from a mere sniffly rat. Yet, alas,
The spider needs no detox or India’s chemotherapy because this is clear
And real of to-day: yesterday’s panya are laying claim to private equity
Off the backsides of nunting millennial cats.

The spider pulls the last droplet of mosquito yoghurt up her straw:
For yesterday’s pussies! To today’s rats! Cheers!
And the spat dead mosquito wings take final flight, by gravity
To repose below her web at the ants’ Undertaker Museum of Lost Realities’.

© Oluoch-Madiang’, 2016.

H. E. THE GOVERNOR


The Governor – ‘His Excellency the Busy Schedules’ – has hurried
from inside his two whores
in 48 spinning wheels of Bridgestone All-Terrain
to personally hand over his 5,000 shillings condolences
and wipe away tears from the bereaved.

Children of the funeral scamper from the Bridgestones’ rumbles of terror
and H.E. the Governor is tickled at how the multiple pairs of their grey,
bare buttocks tumble.
“Pilot”, the Governor horselaughs at his 2nd-hand-wrinkle-suited driver, “you used to be this
butt-naked in your shack, from where I saved you from! Yes?”

5,000 shillings and a blah, blah, blah, speech later, His Excellency chases back his urgent schedules,
speeding those screeching All-Terrains away, and into his duo of ever-ready squeezes.
“Show me your buttocks”, the Governor orders,
and proceeds to inspect County ‘development projects’
to determine their supplementary budget needs.

Oluoch-Madiang’, 2015

A Happy Funeral


There is immeasurable happiness about
me, and victory tunes.
I have my thumbs up
and a happy funeral in my heart.

The friend of my enemy is dead,
Died together with the enemy of my friend.
They were making love, these two,
and just stopped.

© Oluoch-Madiang, 2015.

Magic Tail


Then, again,
After Uncle K.’s fingers have finished with poking his manners
Up your asshole and he has gifted you a lollipop for blowing
His circumcised bigness,
And as your mother wails to Jesus at the arms of your daddy
Who is dazed at this unAfrican thing,
Gosh,
You will shy away into Luthuli Avenue’s public toilet and, 10 bob poorer,
Unzip your disappointing phallus free, daydream it to be
MaJitu’s magic tail
And thwack the urinal mothballs to smithereens.

10ml of burning yellowness later, it will not matter to you
The spoils of struggle: only triumph. Any relief!

If only you could whack Uncle K. away with your magic tail and shred fraternity
Asunder, your mother would sniffle clear and slap her brother too.
Maybe your daddy would give Ubuntu no fuck
And break the neck of Uncle K.

If only you could whack Uncle K. away with your magic tail!

Then
You’d always whip out your willy at urinals and swat Uncle K.’s sad blue flies,
Squeeze your bums tight and jerk off with magical oomph
All of your mother’s brother’s unAfricaness!

Then.

© Oluoch-Madiang’, 2015

PIGS ACROSS UHURU HIGHWAY, HAIL


PIGS ACROSS UHURU HIGHWAY, HAIL!

Pigs, reason has left you for
A good reason: you are piggoted! You are the starring
Pigs across Uhuru Highway asking why
The pig crossed the road: well, it was
Bottom-less alright, panting to hog Kenya. There across
Uhuru Highway, moneypigs think bila suruali, yes,
Nitbrains pondering deep motions, mmmmmh,
‘How best to thwart misreligous murderers from Kismayo’s charcoal bushes?’

Aaaaah, pig-filth moment: Eureka!
Hurry, lock up all citizens in Kamiti’s pits for, maybe,
Spindly tongues
Scattering legs
Selfie corpses profile photos
Maybe.
War of terror for war against terror:
When Kismayo’s barbarians come acrusading,
No Kenyan skull will be in sight to debrain,
All secure in Kamiti’s terror-shelter, yes?

Pigs across Uhuru Highway fingering each,
Maybe you shelve intra-terror for now? (oh sorry,
But reason left you).
How about then, bila suruali, unreasonably,
You bend over patriotically, yes, on Mandera’s open fields and
Scare the shit off the shabby butchers with
Your filth and raised middle finger? Squeal
Them off to deep, deep ocean of Indians?
Yes? They too abhor pigs, yes?

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