Fiction: Fire Of Zanga

July 28, 2017 Fiction , Literature , POETRY / FICTION




John Chizoba Vincent



Flashes! Rushes! Urges! Patches of love! I don’t understand who I am! Am I your last breath? Or the beginning and the end of your life? Am I the last of the strongest? Am I the orbiting earth? Do you understand me better than myself? Have you seen the comb of fire on the Cock’s head? Does motherhood happen when we give birth?

Mother never told me my root or the reason why the fire that clock down emotion burns within me. She was the creator of these feelings that said I won’t settle down with one man that has no nagging eyes…Make the move in my spirit as the golden pedal in the legs of a goddess in the shrine of my forefathers. Listen to my tale and tell me why women must suffer from the sin of Eve. Listen to my tale and tell men that Adam infected them all with an ego so rude and callous. Men are the heaven of women as they pride themselves in the altar of a lost ego among their kings.

Mother told me yesterday of an old wing of their breath longing in the callousness of their brevity. This is the heaven of the blasphemy of godless spies of people that danced among the locality of the marrows that hold their bones together with a fibre. Men are humans in the orbiting thought of an unbelievable life. We thank God for life, we praise him for what we never see with our eyes, we still pray for him to give us this set of people called men and we call it marriage and faith; yes, that is the hope mingling with the love that the world said won’t stand when the worms of destruction lurk away the goodness that stands the foundation of the world.

If my father could one day close his eyes after dining with our sorrows and agony in his throat and our smiles written on his eyelashes that means life itself is worthless to live by the rules of men, life itself carries a senseless aroma that tells nature that men live in the aftermath of a fate that stays in the tide of evil boundaries. We are here, we are the only voice, we are in competition to love; to make blind all those arithmetic forces that harbour grins of passive thoughts against our kind.

Let my mind be your golden track and map, let my eyes tell you believable stories, let my lips follow the beat of your heart until the moon ceases to shine again. My mother told the goddess of the ocean of my beauty, my father had a tale hanging in his throat before he died of loneliness because mother has to let him be alone. I believe hidden in their palms are the  Fulani herdsmen, I believe we will stand tall again after the masquerade floored the village square with a locally made palm wine and a song rendered by the holy maidens after the fall of the men that torment their lives.

We are here for men but men said they are here for themselves, we screamed in the oceans, their laughter echoes in the forest after hurting us red and black. Tell those that see women as an object of ridicule that their rewards await them in the other phase of life when old age is the water, the breath of their body. These are the testimonies of life that seek love and affection, let the needle eyes envisage the beauty that lies in the template of women’s souls. The lonely cloud moves freely, so allow women that kind of freedom, that old snake was the deceiver, that Eve bit the apple shouldn’t be the debt all women must pay till eternity. Remember, you own nothing in this world, even your wife and children are not yours! So, one day, you will close your eyes and forget them all. Drop your ego and allow peace to reign purely in our hearts.

Lest I forget, you may not understand my language before the dawn of the sun, don’t react to my words yet. We will build the clay sand of dreams soonest not with the rain but we will retire in the field of trust hoping against hope that things speak well of those with breast milk to give. My fellow women tarry on like a sojourner under the iroko tree, tarry on, hold onto your beads and sing along with this familiar old tone. Our faces shall wear smiles one day when all men shall forget their egos in our palms to keep. I will forget my glee on your palms for future reference, until then, when another fire comes out from Zanga.






john chizoba vincent

John Chizoba Vincent

John Chizoba Vincent is a poet, actor, Novelist and D.O.P. He is the Author Of Hard times, Good Mama and letter from Home.

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