Here is a volume of poems written under the title, CULTURAL IDENTITY*

VOL 1.

I don’t know what autumn is,
Baba l’bule has never told me
in our usual moonlight tale.
But I know seasons of my Ibadan.

I am not aware of what winter is,
Iya-mi-re has also not told me
by my bed-side lullaby.
But I know seasons of my African place.

I am from Ibadan,
large city, built on blood and courage,
Ija-igboro larun Ibadan.
My Ibadan unlike London,
has over 200 gates of entrance.

I am Ojotisa,
descendant of ancient Eba’Odan warriors,
warriors who fought to retain Ibadan’s glory.
I am aware of Oye, Igba-Ojo and Igba-Erun,
No white mind should think less of my cultural identity.





VOL II.

Do you know Williams Shakespeare?
I mean have you come across,
Christopher Marlowe’s works?
Damn it! You need to read slave! Read me only!


Haaahaaa!
Come here, you pink reddish ass man!
Have you heard of Femi Osofisan?
I mean have you read
Helon Habila , Onyeka Nwelue?
Stupid of you!
Your intellectual hallucination must stop!

Hey Negro Hello?
Have you ever read of Napoleon
or the crusaders?
Oh sorry
I forgot you don’t read or write.
I am the king of the world.

Beast of all men,
remember your fathers learnt
and also stole Egyptian civilization,
Your mothers,
never as attractive as Saartjie Baartman.
West,
known as thief of history and civilization.
Everyone is a king of his own world, park well*





VOL III

Catch me mother Sheba,
stretch your hands,
place Africa on her feet again.
Mother, my mother queen Sheba of Africa.


_____ I am a man,
An African man so I am.

Father,
on my way from farm of hospitality,
came a visitor with disguised conviviality.
In his hands,
book of salvation,
in mine was a fertile land of culture.
But as we knelt in trust of prayer,
our destiny was switched.

______ Still a man,
but an enslaved African man.

Mother Sheba,
look after Egypt your first son,
and Libya my brother,
injured in 2011;
help Kenya and Sudan my cousins____
Forget not Nigeria your prodigal son,
he’s diseased of geo-political ailment.

______ I remain your dark skinned son,
Whose skin is said means evil.





VOL IV

Butchered in 1885
Africa is raped,
she’s being maimed.


Africa is robbed,
her effort to resurrect is foiled.

Africa is shared,
her body is dismembered.

Africa is sold,
bought by imperialism and its evil hold.

I am an African,
to see survival if I can.