May 14, 2018 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

Albert Gonzalez Farran/unamid photo



MD Mbutoh




There is a Syria in Kamangola



We are like ghosts sailing through foreign

Streets that once were homes for all of us,

It belonged to us all: me, my next of kin and

Us, these bilingual streets on 60s papers.


Some of us grew teeth of predators and

Nostrils of carnivores! Early morning we

Woke up and our bodies smelled like beef!

Our brothers had fangs of carnivores and


That was when the race started!

In nineteen moons some of us have shared

The homes of snakes and the night jar has

Sung lullaby of ‘Forgotten Children’ in our


Tired ears!

Before, our legs were in ecstasy with the

The coldness of the monsoon grounds and

Harsh nights of the harmattan spent under

The scrutiny of the owls.


Then the streets caught fire!


Soldier ants soaked the streets one morning

Like oil caresses wicks–guns belched over

Confused souls; giant ants licking stubborn

Students into grunting military trucks.


That was the night Macabo was captured!

He’d inspired hope, ‘but this hope was a sly

Knife searing umbilicals apart’ some were quick to rain frustrations!


Next day, a three score and a decade old

Woman used her left eye to catch an angry

Stray bullet. We scattered into the bushes

Like flies wake from fresh excrement.


Then bats were sent abroad to do the jobs



‘Dialogue, dialogue, dialogue’ was the song

Rapidly composed with strings of shaven hair of corpses and tears of tortured souls

Masked in dark caves in earth’s womb.


Order cultivated disorder and heads of

anthills cackled in the interior of earth’s laps

Thousands fled into the heart of darkness

Like insects in an infernal Savanna.


The UN said it counted fifty thousand heads

But our brothers across the Mongolo say the children were home – who is fooling who, dear World?


Yesterday our nerves were tensed when in

The streets of Syria the cry of the innocent

Was incinerated by cannons that had to

Bear the olive branch and scale of justice!


Have you heard of Southern Kamangola?

Have you heard of Syria and chemicals?

Did you hear of Rwanda April 94?

Testicles are being grounded in secret hell!


The woman that was impregnated last 19

Moons ago will soon put to bed.

Dear comrades of good faith, the semen of

A dragon begets a fire eating monster!


There is a youthful Syria in Kamangola;

We have become ghosts of ourselves;

Yest’night souls wept in earth’s womb and

This morning scores of youth are at large!


Hear the voice of a deserted bard wailing

In the wilderness for souls lost and souls

On their way to the knacker’s tyrannical



Hear the gong of a masquerade dancing in

The middle of a tumultuous crossroad

whence crowns are no long bearers of

Wisdom but spewers of discord and hatred.


Hear the warning of a Ngumba lost in the

Pool of the masses’ blood, pouring libation

To appease the Gods’ wrath from the

wreckage of selfishness and bad leadership!






MD Mbutoh

MD Mbutoh is an award winning Cameroonian poet who is restless about the human condition. His area of interest includes human rights, gender awareness, good governance, international policy and public action. He has works published in journals, newspapers, and anthologies in countries like India, Ghana, Nigeria, UK, Cameroon, and USA. His latest poetry collections are: Dance of the Kangaroos (2018), published by Spears Media Press, USA and Refugee Republic (2017) published by America Star Books, USA.

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