Chuma Onuora; A Dear Departed


Why won't this damned tears let me be
Deep in my soul fleshes my memories of him,
Carried in thoughts my pen as chariots interpretes,
Sadly in mould of blurs and cracked cast tombstone
These are words of my hand, not my heart; not my will,
For sadness has wretched my heart, shattered, lost, I am.
But, beyond these tears, the splitting heart ache,
Of these many questions that won't stop popping;
Of this man who each and all knew in pieces
I would want pieced together like generic wine

Who is Chuzzy, Toks, Chuma, the bits like bites
I seeked and found variously his appeal, infecious
His reputation on aspects as still, is in comparison;
Unlike the many others from shattered field:
Those in frontline at times of riot in Sokoto,
Those others drinking, partying cocks crow to bed
Where as, for the good of being their pals he stays with
Yet keeping the mind of youngman of dignified postures,
Not doing badly at holding drunken conversations,
Yet, wide eyed; all knowing, Mr. Nice, composure per excellence,
His sight and insight; art to toasting, ever ready, eyes ever roving.

These past few days, I look back to those our times
Where it all began, again and again. Compared to now
Thinking; anyone could have been in that ICU, or dead,
Cast down without a thought for our sins or not;
Like a bullet hardly giving any of us time enough to blink;
Time enough to say goodbye, do the farewell embraces,
Never to know what it would be like to grow old or frail;
Lost to the mountain of expectations versus indulgence
Free at last to the heat that comes with fear; of death at living
The signposts are not good; so I have been hugging than usual.

To whoever feel like many; why Chuzzy, God not him;
To those who feel the good ones die tool early, feel
The snashing; the injustice of loosing a life priceless
Marvel at this garment of wooly deceit death wears
Among us, shroud, sleek but shrewish picking us off,
One by one in this inescapable granary net we call world
Be warned death is almost always never for being good or bad:

Now, to speak of your strength in dispair;
Rather than mourn with body and heart broken
Free yourself, as hard as it sounds of daze-
We, who alive with ability must repaint this grey
Repair and realize quickly too, alarm bell as red are real
Never can tell the quickness of death's hurricane landing
So while we see one another breathing,
Knowing yet we live in shell of egg,
Death constantly fondles and must someday break.

As our dear Chuma Onuora soon be enclosed
In his new home no skin but all soul
Watching and reaching us in whispers:
As we lie in wait, dying of not knowing
Be neither crushed as you must, nor crippled,
Live every minute, love hard, stay in touch
But most of all let's make out time to blink and hug, more.

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