Unacceptable Love

Why are you indifferent,
To this wooing affair?
Why are you maladroit,
In this invulnerable circle?

Destiny is our saga,
It makes me go gaga.
Should I continue,
Through misery and agony,
Until when I reach the peak?

Alas! I refuse to comply
With in-your-face mien!
I've a faculty of lessons:
Wisdom amid experience,
I'm fed up of your censoriuos acts.

Your macabre Machiviallian plot,
Will end as a trash,
I am eagle-eyed fellow,
Sophisticated to detect machinations.

Horrible things are a cul-de-sac
Now, I cease to engage afresh!


Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld from Glo Mobile.

MY HOPE

Things come and go
Some stay and vow.
True ones only stay,
The false can't pay.
We take the good and bow
With a big amazing wow!

Our bond has grown,
Like a queen with crown.
Being in the cycle for long,
The kind all will love to belong.
Chasms in such a bond could show,
But at the end they go to the shore.
Blessing covers those endure
With patience as in conjure,
Words can not express
Even if I be the press,
The happiness of this day
As it comes on Friday.
Then comes blessing upon blessing
Words aren't enough in expressing

For the sake of true budding
Who never brings burden.
It began as a seedling,
Today, it is a sterling.
Morrow it will reach the zenith,
Tranquility will come from beneath.
That's the moment to achieve
Glory and ideal life we receive
We're then be envied,
But we will not be levied.
Oh! You the patient buddy!
Your life is now in my body.
Friend you are and partner
All because of your manner
Losers are the sadists
Who hinder the leftists.
That's the moment we cheer up;
Drinking gingerly in one cup!
We'd then give them tongue
They'd know they do wrong.
Now we go hand in hand,
Our life becomes a brand.
The records that you hold,
Are of high caliber and bold
Sharp and bright I name your brain,
In my memory it will ever remain.
I say all this without shaking,
Shy or else, fear or blaming
My worries are always wiped
By you when my heart you peeped.
You honour me when I'm dishonoured,
You heal me when I'm wounded.
You're religious and well-versed,
Your verses are not rehearsed.
You are so quick to discern,
And hospitable,you show concern.
Generous, by heaven I learnt.
Your nights are full of light.
Shy as Fulani and also tide,
With horizon free and wide.
Describing you mouth can't
Praising you stop I won't.
In theory and practice you're perfect
in life your deeds no one can reject.
Commending you I say is my last breath
There you'd remain on my chest breadth
My wish for you is my wish
If it's lie let end my dish.
I tag your birthday a secret
Just be patient and reflect.

BIRTHDAY GIFT

This day the poet tweets 

With an unclenched fists,

He's had to drop his kits,

With all their nice knits 

To pay humble tributes 

For a being who contributes

Whose hand never carries a blade,

Nor does it spoils the bread.

Let me hail a speedy plane,

That doesn't stress brain;

The crew inside it is refined, 

And the passengers are finely wined  

Depending not on others' dine. 

Not even yearning for mine.

The camp cherished by old

And the young cheer, behold.

Moderate and cool it's to stand,

Coming with ideas fresh and brand

The ideas appear to be fit,

I speak of wit not of pit

Diamonds they're and golds,

Superseding phoenix and oxfords.

Behold, it is a generous university,

That tirelessly dispenses versatility.   

Giving out high and concrete degree

In tons folks receive it all free.

The dead's fate has no speech

Much less to come with a breach

Flattery some people will think

But I do write this with a wink. 

Does this poet's mouth seal?

Nay! None can seal it or steal! 

In our cycle you seem like a queen

To say this I waited with keen.

The ostrich you're that eats steel

In saying this shame I don't feel.

If one perceives it as a blame,

Let him curse me or cast defame. 

It's not for me, a crime

Because I'm still in my prime.

I can avenge but in sublime 

Since I'm not born a lame.

I'd choose to retire here,

Bosh! In running I'd be a hare.

But giving respite is fair

Like giving a messenger fare.

I smile as I'm saying today,

Viva to you on this day.

  

Composed by 

Huzaifa Sani Ilyas

01:03 P.M. 

Thur. 1 August, 13 

Essay

THE ATTITUDE OF SOUTHERNERS TO NORTHERN NIGERIAN INTELLECTUALS
By
Huzaifa Sani Ilyas
huzaifasanisarari@rocketmail.com
O8033576113

Nigeria is a multi-ethnic country containing many tribes, it is divided into six geo-political zones; however, this division is mainly known as the dominated Muslim north, and the dominated Christian south. Both parts received western education, virtually, with sameness in political participation and leadership. Since independence, the country has been in verbal war between the south and the north. The former, which sees itself as a civilized territory, a land full of intellectuals, scholars, and technocrats, view the latter as barbaric, uncivilized, dormant, and parasite (always found in the southern papers). This argument of whether the north lacks intellectual thinking has been the talk in the nation for decades. However, history has proved that, envy is one of the elements of social struggle especially between the forces of purity and the forces of obscurity. Social envy exists in any society, but it's only those who are objective, sincere and progressive-minded as well as liberal can appreciate and enjoy the difference; furthermore, highlighting the points to the party that challenges the truth. As one scholar says, the truth is never concealed, it is vivid, tangible, and something to the point that you can't deny.

Unfortunately, one of the social viruses the country is experiencing is egocentrism of the southern media, and its atrocity and animosity towards its northern counterparts. It goes along to even show vividly that it is against the northern people and their traditions. The southern media name the northern media Islamist extremist or Muslim extremist papers, (they never call their papers Christian papers) in its pride and transgression. The former disguises under the so-called freedom of speech, and exposes itself to sadism and envy and always couldn't contain its intrinsic animosity against the north. In other words, one can name the southern media 'anti-north crusader'. Meanwhile, it goes beyond the usual expectation of media practitioners or media houses from being objective enterprises, and being responsible in discharging their obligations fearlessly and without any nepotism or tribal orientalism or superiority complex or discrimination in the dissemination of information or segregation of the other parts ( ethnic group), instead, the southern media possesses those calamitous effects and become biased, disrespectful and unreliable to give the north satisfactory information about socio-political life. This is a failure to the whole country at large. Deviating from being ideal example to copy, they become irresponsible and ravaging elements to throw away, because of their dangerous contents. Unlike the northern media that always try to follow the path of unity, tolerance, understanding and togetherness. The southern media proved different.

Some of the characteristics of media and journalism as well as their universal applicability and respect are OBJECTIVITY and RELIABILITY of the sources of information and disseminating the information without discrimination, fear, favour or familiarity. Unfortunately, the southern media, and perhaps their representatives (commenter in both print and electronic media) lack the former and the latter. This is fact and needs no debating; any reader who reads southern papers knows the abuses of character the southerners make against the northerners. What they have is arguably nepotism, sectionalism, tribalism and ethnocentrism. And these are the major attributes that dominate their papers, radio, televisions and of course, even the social media used by the southern people and this becomes the discussion that circulates every nook and cranny in the south.

However, the northern intellectuals and other capable forces of scholars, commenters, analysts and so forth remain indifferent on the abuses, biases, disgrace and unsystematic dissemination of unreliable information about the north, its people and culture. This exhibits their laziness and carelessness, I don't know; maybe because many of them are southerners' apologists. One can't find a northerners' writings in their papers except on rare occasion, one could hardly see even the online comments because they don't or wouldn't post them, and they would rather manipulate or hijack the comments, (only when they want to bring chaos between the south and the north). Though the northerners refrain most of the time from commenting on the papers, maybe because they lack interest or maybe because they are sure their works will not be published.

To dive into the ocean of the whole matter, recently, Professor Ibrahim Bello-Kano (IBK), a Professor of Literature and a versatile scholar from the north, paid a tribute to late Chinua Achebe; he called his piece: Chinua Achebe: A Non-romantic View, in which most of the Nigerian dailies published, (published only to open room for attacking the writer for his objective and fearless release of his unapologetic and factual piece about Achebe and his novels which is academic and intellectual, rather than personal and prejudicial ). This opens up the reality of underscoring the northern people, lack of total respect to northern scholars and intellectuals; in other words, IBK exposes the facts that are vivid and undeniable. Thence, the southern people, having jingoist feelings and ethnic chauvinism, and precisely envious minds and as well as underrating the intelligence and capability of the northern people with their altruistic thinking of orientalists who think there is no such thinking and great minds in the north, vehemently rejected IBK's piece and deterred it with biased view. Having recognized there are such big thought and great minds the north, their envy couldn't allow them to accept the fact and appreciate it, but they go along to attack the professor personally rather than establish reasonable and objective views or arguments defending the late Achebe who IBK deconstructed with objective criticism, using structuralist and post-structuralist views of Viktor Shklovsky's and Jacques Derrida's "defamiliarization" and "difference" and Since most of the people venerated Achebe romantically and blindly without knowing who Achebe really was. This is a clear indication that north has been suffering from the southern media intellectually, and of course still suffers discrimination from the anti-intellectual critics, who demystify blindly and selfishly to let their uncontrollable prejudices appear unapologetic. Even though, they are people of the same nationality, same race, and same continent, they would not stop their campaigns of hatred and humiliation.

In the article, Ibrahim Bello-Kano asserts that even though Chinua Achebe was a great writer (he uses the phrase 'outstanding writer' in the first place), he notices chasms and failures in Achebe's writing career, which he says ended his career by writing There was a country: A Personal History of Biafra. Many scholars, critics and analysts condemned the book, and tagged it as the wrong book at the right time. This is almost the same view Achebe's disciple holds, the Igbo female novelist Chimamanda Adichi Ngozi. She said in her Tribute to Achebe at 82:

"Achebe's most recent book, his long-awaited memoir of the Nigerian-Biafra war, is both sad and angry… I wish THERE WAS A COUNTRY had been better edited and more rigorously detailed in its account of the war."

While IBK points out that Achebe's first novel Things Fall Apart, came out in a time when African 'educated and cultural nationalists' were looking for things on culture that would be documented as Africa's pre-colonial intellectual possessions and legacy. In his Non-romantic tribute, he calls Achebe a tribal nationalist, because of his failure to hide his sentimentality and tribal concern for only his people, Igbo. As a writer, one is a preacher, a leader and a father in bulk whose task is to guide, lead and reconcile between two conflicting issues, ideologies, or misunderstandings. The good father creates the best way for dialogue and reconciliation among his children in order to clear away grudges and animosity among them. But Achebe proves otherwise as he favours one site only. In other words, IBK is persistent on his stand that Achebe was communal jingoist and even ethnic nationalist, igbo-phie, post-colonial and Biafran apologist as well as anti-colonial writer, more especially when he deconstructs Achebe's last written work, There was a country. That's not IBK's major concern, his was when people across the nation keep re-iterating things such that Achebe is 'the father of African Literature', he became provoked and reactive, and perhaps this is the reason why he decided to write his A Non-romantic View, perhaps, non-hero worshipping tribute to Achebe, making it crystal clear that Achebe was not the 'father of African Literature."

IBK underlines some recipe to those who stick to the claim and believe that the Achebe was the 'dad of African literature' (to make it informal). He shed more light saying that the claim is an unacceptable not only to African writers, literary historians and scholars but also to Achebe himself. IBK continued saying there were many African writers who contributed long before Achebe was born and their contributions were excellently compelling. IBK called the claim as a 'partial and reductive view of Africa's literary history, or a diminution of African writing to a minor position...'

To summarize it all, he says, 'in any case, the idea of Achebe being the 'father of African Fiction' isn't a scholarly argument but a romantic and naïve one because it ignores the major contributions of pre-colonial African Authors and a huge corpus of African writing in Arabic, French, Portuguese and Spanish.'

To cash it down, few days ago, the renowned playwright an poet, the Nobel Laureate, Professor Wole Soyinka, came out with harsher words against the hackneyed phrase that Achebe was the founding father of African Literature. He says it's: "Literary ignorance'' or "momentary exuberance to which we are all sometimes prone." Soyinka added:

"Those who seriously believe or promote this must be asked: have you the sheerest acquaintance with the literatures of other African nations, in both indigenous and adopted colonial languages?"
He continued:

"What must the francophone, lusophone, Zulu, XHOSA, Ewe etc. etc. literary scholars and consumers think of those who persist in such a historic absurdity? It's as ridiculous as calling Wole Soyinka father of contemporary African drama! Or Mazisi Kunene father of African epic poetry. Or Kofi Awoonor father of African poetry. Education is lacking in most of those who pontificate."

And for Achebe's last work, There was a Country…, Soyinka termed it as "a book I wish he had never written-that is not in the way it was. There are statements in that work that I wish he had never made."

However, Ibrahim Bello-Kano, said similar things about the work, his is more intellectual, academic and frank than Soyinka's which was more personal and harsher than IBK's, but the whole nation, especially the south, came out with innumerable attacks on IBK, calling him names, in fact, they not only ended the insults on him but also to the generality of his ethnic location, his religion and his tribe.

In the journalism profession, it is not allowed everywhere in the world to cast such abuse of character in papers. On online papers, there is a law that prohibits that, telling you before you comment, for instance, on the online papers, that any abuse of character, defamation or slander comments would not be entertained. Southern papers always don't practice the law; they go ahead after reviewing to post them. Who criticizes Soyinka now? Where are the harsh and abusive rejoinders against IBK? Where are those selfish, egoistic writers who backed Achebe blindly? To make it clear, Soyinka referred to Achebe's early novels as "market literature", which was more or less aimed at making money rather than contributing to intellectual progress, yet the southern commenters remain as silent as grave. Are they afraid of Soyinka's scathing censure or have they regarded him as Literature's 'final authority?' Everybody is hiding quietly because the lion appeared in the middle of the field, no talk, no cough, no move, nothing but silent egocentrism of biased forces and ethnic jingoism.

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld from Glo Mobile.

HE KNOWS NOT HE DOESN’T KNOW

It is mystifying to hear
Unusual words against
The established norms,
Of a sense society.
It is queer to hear
A marauding marauder,
Coming upon you
In a deleterious dungeon,

Threatening your fragile soul.
In mask of envy, intruding itself
Into a wide field of grace,
Wanting to ravage you
And liquidate your arsenal,
With its 7th century merciless missiles,

And then you are defenseless,
With protectors, senile and anile
Your arsenal are brain and pen,
As they are sharper than swords,
Incomparable warrior in peace and war,

Then the pens of your disciples emerge
With swords sharpest than all,
And you only thought they'd not succour,
Alas! The defense stand by you,
With their suave modern armaments,
That can nuke any evil system,
Crushing the slayer,
And bringing a historic change
Lasting until eternity.

Composed on 14th May, 13
02:36pm


 

The Path

THE PATH
Composed by Huzaifa Sani Ilyas
8th May, 2013
12:07 a.m.

Straighthened path, smoothened, unbending
To the Promised Land, as always it's.
In the history of the world, ongoing,
Never missing or getting lost,
Undefeated when being on the track.

Being the first, and also the last,
The guide to true life, the mother of culture
Civilization and modernity, the foe to ignorance.
Ignominy is checked out when it appears
Peace and progress salute, even unseen.

The root of modesty, standing firmly for it.
Disgracing it is the beginning of failure,
Havoc it creates when it's fought.
Hapless dweeb and sycophant remain its enemies
Life discredit goes to its mimicker.

Gregarious, refined its adherents
roll on,
Breathing in ardent jubilation
Mimicking those devaluing it
From afar, afraid of being troubled
By those infamous folks, fortuneless
Who seek pleasure in disgusting it.

The sunlight that shines in every morning,
Bringing an end to the dark night,
Bringing the day of hope, the day of success
That shines in its glory
The moon which assuages the pain
Of hard day labour with substitute of joy
Expelling the darkness of the night.
The mother star that decorates the sky,
With starlets spreading all over
Following its oders in suspense
Revealing the earth's surface
On that darkly night

The house of prestige gets down
When it neglects its posture,
The house of low becomes the high,
The house of prestige and grace
When embracing it as good samaritan.

Dying isn't its character
But the nature of its antagonists
Immortality it allocates in the scenery
How then the creator let die its worshipper?
How then the imprudent malcontent lives
When it's the controller?

Low lands are to its foes, high lands are its lovers'.
Appreciating ornaments and thrill
The upshot of sticking to its creed
Suffices to bring a yielding recipe
From societal regrets to ecstasy.

Vulnerable is the society distressing it,
Conflict and anarchy, to say least
Become the result of its neglect
Those drink from its ocean

Being the richest and genius creatures.
Living cosmopolitan, nice and pleasant.
Appreciating the reliable and the cherished.

Despised is its challenger, lugubriously
Dwelling in penury and guilt,
Directionless as lunatic, messy and denounced.
Enjoying no more than having disgrace in dung.

The feeder of life, feeding with no stop,
The enlightener of the errs, having no chasms.
The sweetener of the tongue, dismissing the bitter,
The dispenser of life, the killer of doom,
The rescuer of souls standing on the precipice,
The cosmetics that makes man a man,
And woman

The seed of mercy that spreads across centuries,
The citadel of fantasies that never deform,
The voice of the voiceless which is ever heard
And seen even by dumb and blind,

The fighter for the truth, the panacea to peace.
The resilient legacy bequeathed by prophets
Leaving behind only trend of hope and strength,
Crushing all vices that threaten ingenuity,
Calling all to the path of utopia,
Closing all the perilous ones to dystopia.

Sent from my BlackBerry® wireless handheld from Glo Mobile.

Matrimonial Poem (For Kabir Musa Yusuf)

Composed: 26th Jan, 2009

The time has come
For us to cheer and celebrate
The marvellous occasion we longed
Of our master's memorable matrimony.

The day we thirsted and starved,
The day we waited with keen,
The day all of us booked
To fill our happiness gap,
Today the day has come.

When longing is longed,
When striving is the task,
When supplication is invoked,
Then yearning is fulfilled
Gratification progress
Then success prevail.

We must celebrate with you
As we've nothing to pay you;
For you are our lead,
Followers to your footprints,
With your voice we speak.

Our sterling tutor, our guide,
Our starting point, our end.
Our educational path, our gate.
Our key to success, our hope.

Without you noun would be neglected
Without you pronoun would be oppressed
Without you verb would be marginalised Without you adverb would be robbed
Without you adjective would be segregated
Without you preposition would be paralysed
Withour you conjunction would be dislocated
Without interjection would be vandalised
Without you parts of speech would be strangled
And without you literature and language will faint and die.

So great you are by emancipating them from emasculation
So brave you are for rescuing them from annihilation.

We are at your door
Jubilating your jamboree,
And to wish you viva
And sustainable married life.




Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device from MTN

My Personal Experience of Police Savagery and Arbitrariness

It is unfortunate that some police men don't value I'd cards, or is it because many of them haven't been trained to know its value, or are illiterates. Some have only High School certificates, having little education or zero education.
It happened on Thursday December 6, 2012 around 10:34pm in Gwale, in Kano. As I walked along Aminu Kano Way, I heard someone call out my name. It was my friend, Shamsu, standing among four other guys near a shop, which was closed. He left them and joined me at the sidewalk. A couple of minute later, we saw five men carrying guns shouting at us. They rounded us up, including the guys standing aside. They began searching us. I identified myself as a journalist and my friend a Level 200 student at Bayero University, Kano. The man who appeared to be of the team leader called Abbas said that if they searched us and found nothing criminal, we would go. I presented several I'd cards, including NYSC Foundation ID card, my school ID card which I've not yet submitted for my transcript; my press ID card, my Association of Nigerian Authors ID card and my Kano English Club ID card. One of the policemen pointed out a guy called Mubarak and excluded him from us and told to go home. Thereafter, I was roughed up and shoved into the back seat of a truck. I heard the team leader swear that I would sleep in the cell. Why, I was not told; may be it was because I told him I was a journalist.
They kept the rest of us behind the counter; I called people I could reach on phone to come to our aid, but their phones were unavailable. I then twitted and facebooked (before they took away our phones). A friend and two guys whose voices I couldn't recognise were at the station to bail me. He met the police man and even promised to give him money to release me. But he wanted more than my friend had on him; suddenly, he disappeared, but not before ordering his colleague to ensure that we were not released.
We were thrown into the cell, 22 of us. No food, no water, nothing but pieces of faeces combined with stale odour of urine that assailed the nostrils, and mosquitoes and biting insects. It was so dark we couldn't see our palms. I couldn't sleep in that inhumane condition. I couldn't believe that we made it to the next day.
In the morning, I was called out to sweep the rooms; I declined, noting it was not my duty. Some friends came to bail me. But the police on duty said they could do nothing until the DPO returned by 11:00a.m. The DPO eventually came and we were asked out of the cells and to line up as he called our names one after the other. All, except me, would be taken to court. I presented my ID cards and told him how it happened. I noticed the shock in his face. He heaped blames on the arresting police officer, and pledged to look into it.
Many people in the cell told me how they were arrested. Some were sitting in their shops; others were merely enjoying their dinner. Others walking or standing in their areas; like me, who was few metres away from home.

Huzaifa Sani Ilyas
Huzaifasanisarari@rocketmail.com

Published on Daily Trust Newspaper
Monday, December 10, 2012
Also, published on Blueprint Newspaper
Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device from MTN

Things Fall Apart

Things fall apart.
The sky cries
The earth shakes,
The pen dries,
The paper sicks,
The idea shivers

The reader feeble,
The giants' hearts palpable.
The day dark,
the sun hot,
The moon cool,
The oceans dry

It's queer, yet it comes
It's appalling, yet it tears,
It's a hero fall, falling of hope,
To some, and to other, its demise.

The titanic, unsinkable is sunk.
The unbeaten, the cat, beaten.
The failure for all, and to none.
The lenient lead, at the end,

Our lament is death, dead-end.
No longer at ease, untrimmed
March 21st remains indelible
No longer at ease,
The arrow of God thrown;

The man of the people exiles,
To a square hole, no return.
The hole surface, a replica of
Anthills of the Savanna,
The image of Africa ceases.

Racism ends, not only in Conrad's mind,
But in the world the magical poet leaves.
The pillar which withholds the colonist.
The caterpillar which crushes the prison walls.

Marriage is a private affair,
the dead tells story
When he writes with undying pen.
Dead men' path, a nostalgia to lose.
The sacrifice egg for all to taste.
Civil peace the creed he stands for.

Girls at war, ruinous anecdote.
Vengeful creditor, a mystery.
The voter, in his circle, scraps honor.
Beware soul-brother, your soil is wrecked.
Christmas at Biafra is at ebb,
Don't let him die, he tips off,
Christopher Okigbo reiterates.

Today is another Africa, unpredictable.
The refugee mother and child.
The vultures descend to grab,
The left-over treasures left,
Bitterness denies the grab.

The novelist as teacher, surpasses.
Though hopes and impediments exist,
History never forgets its builders,
It's unlike ingrate, shadow,
disappearing when moved,

Morning yet on the creation day,
Creates creative soul, doubting
Over the arts, that Africa bears,
Alas! Losing one side of the coin.
The morning eclipses.

The boss, disburses
the trouble with Nigeria,
The failures in leading,
a nation failing
In peoples' policies as leaders';
Home and exile, an alternative.
The best recipe, as learned
Education of a British protected child
To some, success, to others, failure.

The appreciable legacy left for children
Unforgettable, a reminiscence,
to my childhood
Chike and the river,
enchanting shore scene
From thereon, the poor personae retells
How the leopard got his claws.
He now gets the flute and the drum,
which he flutes
To sing the song of art,
time and more.

Today the days are gone,
Leaving us in mourning
The pain of the great loss,
Will forever remain,
In our hearts and pens
The hero is no more.

When the fate befalls,
When the familiarity befriends,
When the death descends,
When the mightier falls,
Then dearth prevails,
And patience follows,
Then the world tells the bitter yarn:
There was a country
And there was a writer!

(Composed by Huzaifa Sani Ilyas)
1:10 a.m. 23rd March, 2013

Sent from my BlackBerry wireless device from MTN