I. A Child of Three Worlds

I was born with three bodies in one,
and with three bones in the flesh;
the body and bones of my mother,
the body and bones of my father.
I am Ogwumagalah, the Cameleon
who was born with two secret heads?
One head for his father-in-law,
the other for his omnipotent God
who will crush the spirit of disobedience
either with the withdrawal of his wife
or the elimination of his life.

What shall depart from me in cold blood
if I disobey either of my demanding parents
since neither my wife nor my life
is the subject to their handsome handling?
The Bible professes the subtle answer,
that we should obey our blessed parents
so that our days will become long and large.
Eternity must be such a rosy reward
for three bodies to listen to my parents,
whose body and burden I happily carry,
as well as the sweetness of my singing soul.

Will I lose my wife for ignoring my father,
or my life for not listening to my mother?
When the gongs of eternity secretly sound,
neither will be there to halt the hanging hell,
but will pray that the crickets of condemnation
depart from my doors to prolong their lineage.
The blessings of our three bodies
often lie in these constant intercessions,
by which our life may be possibly larger 
than the eagles that fly above the palm trees,
or the sharks that dive into the deepest seas.

---

II. I Wear My Grandfather's Body 

It must be for a reason
that my Grandfather kept a posthumous silence;
he was joining the fellowship of haberdashers
to measure his body with mine.
The first time I put it on, it was oversized,
not to mention its overwhelming weight,
the thousand cataracts of gold and diamonds,
the multitudinous cowrie shells,
assortment of metals and steel for measuring
how much value should be on a relative's soul.
My Grandfather went under the haberdashers
and learned how to measure bodies of the living
against bodies with a departing light.
Trees wear the clothing of dust at Harmattan,
summer dresses the leaves in lurid purple,
while spring and autumn put on their windy hues
on the helpless bodies of flowers and insects. 
Now, even my mother would not recognise me
except through the hole in my back knee
where the gods of my Grandfather knocked him
after he wrestled with them in the forest.
My sisters confessed that I spoke like my Grandfather,
and his body was, in the language of the grave,
supremely and deeply cut to my size.
Unlike what I felt wearing my father’s body,
a sombre retreat into rag day’s chasm,
too narrow for comfort and ever too nervous
when his creditors bumped into me on the street,
exclaiming that I must not escape them.
When the white clouds envelop the earth,
the sky sometimes pretends not to know,
but this light that gleams through my eyes
is not part of my Grandfather's old clothing.

---

Jonathan Chibuike Ukah writes from London and lives like a hermit. A few magazines have published him and a few prizes have been awarded to him.