BEWARE OF FRAUDSTERS (a poem)

BEWARE OF FRAUDSTERS

I passed out from trouble,
That seemed like a battle.
I was nigh to success,
But I lost the access.
I encountered a wicked rogue.
Who wore a hideous brogue.
He was indeed a wannabe;
A bourgeoisie he seemed to be.
He was bodily a dweeb.
But inwardly, he was drab.
He offered me homage
With honour of a pledge.
"Where could I get change
Of Dollars without challenge?"
Swiftly, my curiosity arisen.
And my cupidity awoken.
"Bureau de Change I know."
In truth, I said to this fellow.
Verily, on this, I stammered,
At the same time, I shivered.
A friend I asked my wish
Who obeyed with no selfish.
Three of us rode Okada
To Badawa on this agenda.
A ghetto area we entered,
Into a trivial cottage we ushered.
In a box dollars were scattered;
Twenty thousand Naira was demanded
As payment for the keeper
Of the bucks, I could remember.
I paid the dough as demanded,
Later, one of them departed
To nowhere knew but Creator.
But fortune swapped the danger.
Meeting the crook man at a junction,
In Same day, I've to mention,
Caught hold of him and demanded
My money back, we requested.
"To my comrade you gave not me,
Out of my way, let me be free."
At last much when he suffered
In the hand of police, he surrendered.
My money was gladly refunded,
And the fraudsters were brutally treated!

BEWARE OF FRAUDSTERS

SARARI AT WORK: MISSION TO THE GRAVE

SARARI AT WORK: MISSION TO THE GRAVE: The mourners were crying, others were murmuring prayers to my humble corpse. The shroud which my body was to be wrapped was brought, and peo...

MISSION TO THE GRAVE

The mourners were crying, others were murmuring prayers to my humble corpse. The shroud which my body was to be wrapped was brought, and people men and women including my father were standing before my dead body. My father and my siblings were now carrying me to an open backyard where I would be washed. I could hear a very long hypocritical scream of my wicked step mother, which sounded like ululation. It seemed as if she was happy about my departure. The antics in her scream showed the reality of her lack of seriousness. It was a forged cry, and I believe, all this, was due to an inestimable hatred she had for me since my mother was alive.
Soon, our family house was crowded; the compound was filled up with different faces. At the entrance, many cars were parked, and their owners were patiently waiting for my burial. Relatives and well-wishers including my school mates were gathered to witness my funeral.
I wondered how people knew about my death so soon, especially as it was only a few minutes after my departure. Then suddenly I remembered that it was Sunday afternoon. I thought maybe Kabiru Musa Jammaje was informed about it, and he took advantage to announce it on the Freedom Radio during his programme Creative Writing.
My fiancée whose name was untold even when I was alive, fainted almost thrice when she heard about it. She was currently hospitalised at Aminu Kano Teaching Hospital.
My family, relatives, neighbours and others were now standing in a row for my funeral prayer. I was just kept down before them by four strong men; and the Imam stood over me saying his prayers. I could see tears dripping down my father's cheek when he was joining in the line. The prayer was off, and the Imam asked the congregation to pray for me. In less than five minutes; I was taken to cemetery.
On my bier, I could feel how I was being moved by the people who were carrying me. I could see how my intimate friends including Aliyu Abdu Babayo, Abba Ali Sadiq, Bashir Yahaya, Abba Danbatta, Miftahu Ya'u as well as Aminu Mu'azu were receiving my condolence. I could also overhear how the entire people were asking God for my forgiveness.
As soon as I was dropped down in front of my grave, which had been dug out by tomb-digger; I found myself preparing and folding the hands of my long-sleeved shirt among those who were trying to bury me. I was now laid gently into the grave, and I was actively helping them pushing the soil down on me. Suddenly I woke up, and then I realised that I was dreaming. It was now eleven o'clock noon, the time for Creative Writing Programme; and then I turned on my radio.

MISSION TO GRAVE