Under a tall grass thatched hut

By Atok Dan

 All were under a tall grass thatched hut

Lying desperately eying the future under a hut,

None had flicked my mind as a remedy to such a desperation

I plucked off the grass on the roof of a huge ugly structure

I had gone to the bush and behave not like a bushman

It happened to be a tall grass thatched hut,

Where I thought to might have been born,

Though none had it as a confirmation

Not even a mere slip of paper with a record

But I still went to a bush

While raged under a tall grass thatched hut,

A journey had flicked into my brain,

But still had no compass itinerary

It only stood a plain thought of the troubled mind,

I took courage to the bush

Weird hallucinations of childhood

Which instructed me to begin now

I had started as told by madness

Only courage drove dead cells of my reasoning box

My little witty brain at times overwhelmed,

As silhouetted by my shadow

All were under a tall grass thatched hut

I still stayed in the bush  

The hut was what I referred to when faced by unfriendly nature

For there was nothing I had ever known better than it

A testimony to why it could be where I came to live

And a debut on that fateful journey to bush

All wild and tame wishes formed part of a village talks

But never heeded such scaring remarks

I had fitted my brain with sensible rebellion

And went on as the brain had instructed,

A rebel boy engulfed in a bigger rebellion

But the tall grass thatched hut remained referential

And Bush is still my new home

Thoughts of having gone missing came into my brain,

For they had given me strange names,

Yet I could still control my senses of being me,

I knew I had never been out of culture

It was me culturally brainwashed

The tall grass-thatched hut was still visible

I had never lost as perceived,

It was only my mental alters at work

All was a journey under a tall hut

Fallen in the battle of supremacy

By Atok Dan

He lost in the battle of supremacy,

The giant of all beasts has fallen,

In a Goliath-David-like battle

And he truly lost the grip of the key,

The grip of power he had enjoyed lonely

He has lost in the battle of Armageddon

While foes and friends had fallen off the grip of power,

The beneficiaries would no longer enjoy the fruits of loot

And the scene turns into aromas of dogs

Thou shall dance off to a stronger party for protection

The bee, the hive, and the tree have all gone sour to themselves

The hunters would wait well stationed to connect missing links

Not even heavenly angels would dare judge them correct

He lost in the battle of supremacy

While his definitive failures groom his desire for change,

The battle he had long enjoyed winning had overridden,

In favor of the foes of the kingdom of untouchables

Alas, we had never known the day not even the year

But it has come to past,

He had fallen in the battle of Armageddon

Wailings of bereaved had mixed in unison giggles of the happiest

He could call it a sad twist of events, favoring the weak

But none could still reverse the realm

Though few couldn’t have dreamt of such a mournful moment,

The weak tend to rejoice in the fall of Goliath

And the strong hated the success of tiny truth,

Yet he was buried in the battle of Armageddon

The battle tends to trim the access to absolutism

And sharing of the instrument of power flocks with masses

Then, he himself confirmed the fall of the power

Then you shall see him again in his plain powerless attires

Of innocence, he had long denied,

He had lost the battle to them.

My blue cup of porridge at Biyaya boys

By Atok Dan

It is all about my azure bluish plastic blue cup of porridge,

which doubled as breakfast and lunch at Biyaya

we had never known what breakfast meant before lunch

at Biyaya boys, we ate porridge at noon instead of lunch,

and that answers how blue became my favorite color,

it wasn’t just about the color of water,

nor it the conventional color of life,

it was all about nutrients in the blue cup

the porridge at noon time in Biyaya

The blue was the pond that kept my corn porridge

Could it tell how I became a fan of English blue?

The Chelsea FC and the bluish city at Fulham

It was my blue cup of porridge that paved the way for blue

At Biyaya boys, we were with him Rev. Ayok

My blue plastic cup of porridge at Biyaya boys,

with my stainless steel Chinese branded spoon,

Rev. Joseph stood with us doing all he could,

though anxious about how boys would cop

with only a daily meal of porridge,

in a sea of abundance gifts of nature,

He never wanted us to expose to risk,

Especially by those who hated us

Rev. Ayok and Karen had it for the boys,

that we never fall victims to a hateful society around us

our identity as we were what everybody at arm's reach hated us

Yet that identity still stood tall like the hated Berlin wall,

but were mindful of our ancestral resilience,

A guiding tower that sailed us to a covetous life,

and Mr. and Mrs. Ayok were troubled day and night

to inculcate a future of generosity in boys 

We had not only blue but red, green, and pink cups

at Biyaya boys, all that we knew for noon was a porridge

even the youngest boy Bol Bol had tolerated

the noon cup of porridge, our daily meal

at Biyaya boys, our colors were collective,

not just only a collection of red, blue, and green,

like the American states,

but the colors that glued us in love for a rich future

In their fun-loving hands at Biyaya

Boys slept happily at peace with their day half meal,

a meal nourished by love from Mr. and Mrs. Ayok

They let us sail through that tumultuous waters,

Mr. Mrs. Ayok sharpened us to face life with nostalgic facts

It was like that Rev. wanted us to conquer,

And emerge as winners at the end.