DIASPORANS

Sizzling like whistling kettles
Running out of steam,
Despite the heightened heat
from the stoked fire beneath.
Fire stoked daily by bad winds
Hurling from the homeland.
Deadly winds, brutal as the harmattan
Fanning the fire and scorching the skin
of diasporans already double stretched thin.

The whistle, now a mournful whine
Emitting from once courageous souls
Weary from encompassing hopelessness,
Warding off hardship in the host land,
Terrified by surrounding wickedness.
Saddened by frequent untimely passing.
Plain finding it ever harder to stand
The whirlwind life of foreign lands.

Still they struggle to increase the pace,
Trying much harder to transform the race,
Straining daily to get it in stride,
And by so doing,surely control the tide,
And with that success,make it to shore,
From all indications, having tried for sure.

They beat themselves to messy pulp
Taking more than possible in a gulp.
They whistle and sizzle wildly, blowing
Twirling steam in an urgent puff,
Scorching white puff, nothing more.
Like whistling kettles working ever so hard
To give more steam, scorching steam, words
Useless for the problem on hand
But ever so harmful nonetheless.


Nwada (Lady) Chinwe Enemchukwu
Onye Uwa Oma
na Orlando, Florida.
Copyright © June 19 2010