By Geraldríco Gúevara II
Bottles have become bibles!
In the clench of drunks who babble.
Shaky hands transport dose after dose
Of the sedated beer to shuddering lips.
While ogre eyes admire all passing hips
And disenchanted brains take another pose.
Gutters have become homes
To drunks who grabble
As urine pours throw python penises
And shit flees through beer-stained buttocks.
Oh, and they stagger like drunken trees,
Their eyes cocking in lust at every heavy bossom
Of the nkolo-ya-moh shit-filled ladies
While stale words through lips blossom:
‘mama, one night na how much?’
Then they belch like hungry whales-
Their eyes darting in desire like vampires,
Men reduced to beer martyrs.
Trente Trois and Guinness, the new anthem-
Smirnoff and Booster, a new stratagem;
The bars fuller than Christ’s home,
The republic shattering under beer’s foam.
Children starve, emaciate and weep
The wife struggles and sadly sleeps
While waiting for her man
Who has become a Guinness fan.
There he comes staggering
Urine escaping bleached jeans
While emaciated lips sing in queue:
”afofo weti I do you
Afofo weti I do you,
I take ma money I buy you
You take me nackam for down”
The baby strapped to the contours
Of its mother’s lust-deformed back.
One innocent Cameroonian
But a baby, Shaking in fear and distrust
As a shameless mother rocks
To the rhythm of stale Makossa
To the thrill of okrika Bikutsi
And to the bleats of Tuer Pour Tuer.
How she winds her inflated bossoms
To the thrill of malnourished drunks,
And jittles her Medusan breasts
To the confusion of drunken punks.
The baby wide-eyed
Fed with beer from that opiate bottle –
It then begins to giggle and writhe.
Its first Lesson in drunkenness complete.
It is again strapped to the back,
As its mothers runs to the mark
Where ‘Tuer Pour Tuer’ is preached
And to whose rhythm she’ll squirm and screech.
University Degrees now casualties of War.
While the Nation is littered with poor
Who cannt find jobs, and who cannt find bliss.
There are tears in my eyes, but we cann’t desist.
This is my country,
This is my territory.
This is our colony.
This is our patrimony.
No jobs, few pubs.
Few friends, more fiends.
More sadism, less optimism.
More disillusionment, less encouragement.
Less hope, more lope –
Less good men and more evil politicians.
Now, we the youths wipe our eyes –
But still more tears fall, as another youth dies.
He never fulfilled his dreams
He never lived in all those beams.
We need the sages!
And less cages.
Were we made for crime?
Or to dream along with time?
We need to know, else beer will remain
Our national Byzantium
In which we all shall keep searching
for peace and ungodly bliss.