THE MASKED POET
The true story of beauty and the beast......
a novel
CHAPTER 1
'Ladies and gentlemen, the three finalists are:
Cynthia Esit....
Rosemary Bola....
And.....
The Masked Poet.........'
These were the words of the compere announcing the list of three finalists she received from the judges who had chosen them from a list of ten, earlier arrived at from an unending number of entries for the inaugural edition of the 'Fiesta of Poems,' proposed to be a yearly national platform for unearthing the next generation of poets by the Literary Society of Nigeria. The audience, who have keenly followed, and as well, enjoyed all the moments of this weeklong competition, being entertained to flurries of unique shades of poems, clapped and cheered wildly as soon as those names were mentioned. Having listened to the participants read out classic poems they have written out of sheer creativity and invention, they had picked out their perceived personal bests from the lot and were eagerly awaiting the fate of those from the panel of judges. At such, despite a few being disappointed with one or two names they liked missing out, still, majority were in agreement with the final selection.
'Now,' the compere spoke again, interrupting the audience's cheers and applause, and in the process, instilling an atmosphere of silence on the crowd, 'for the golden prize, these finalists are going to write and read out poems on these four categories: African/national; sonnet(the participants can make a choice of any they prefer); romantic; and any other, touching on any matter of personal observation(this can be described as freestyle). Once again, l outline the categories: African/national, sonnet, romantic, and freestyle as in personal issue or concern which nevertheless must meet poetic standards in all its ramifications. So, first to be invited to the stage for his African/epic poem, is...........the Masked Poet.........'
Before he gets to read his poem, the Masked Poet requires a bit of special attention by way of a special description as he was different in appearance from all others who entered for the competition because of his mask. He is male, 26years of age, with an height hovering around 5 feet 7 inches, meaning he was not the tallest of men but of absolutely appreciable height. He is also slightly chubby, dark complexioned, and the type of hair on his head was in between that which is characteristically negro, and the curly caucasian type. The most attractive aspect of his appearance is his face, or rather, his facelessness. This facelessness is in turn made possible by the specially crafted but extremely admirable and colourful mask which covers his face like 'Lagbaja.' He is however, clearly different from Lagbaja, the famous afro-pop singer of Yoruba descent in Nigeria who according to that stage name of his, interpreted to mean faceless, covers his face when in public view with a not so attractive and outrightly dull veil, so as not to be known; in that though faceless, the Masked Poet wore, courtesy of his mask, a sweeter face than Lagbaja's, and probably even more handsome than his natural face who knows, since the face cannot be seen? His mask, though of the same structure and making, often appeared in different colours. But they are always beautiful, very very beautiful. They are not like those scary masks in horror movies, neither are they those terrifying masks of cultural masquerades meant to achieve a well scripted purpose; rather, it ranks amongst the sweetest masks ever produced, also ever seen. His masks are attraction itself; many girls fell for the masks more than the man behind it. Those masks are that seducing. But that is on one side - the most attractive aspect to his physicality. There is however, the most attractive aspect to his personality - his mental and intellectual abilities. Appropriately put, his poetic acumen. His poems are not only pleasant to the ears and captivating to the imagination, but are also thought provoking, nostalgic, sentimental, controversial, and any other imagery he wants them portrayed. From infancy, it was noted his poems held listening audiences spellbound and made the world standstill. For this competition, he chose to be called 'the Masked Poet' as against his official name. It was no problem for the organizers as there was no other 'Masked Poet' anywhere around, probably in the whole world. As soon as the compere announced his name as the first participant to get on stage for the first category of poems, the audience cheered and cheered:
'The Masked Poet
The Masked Poet
Charming poet
Friendly poet.'
They chanted as he climbed the podium. Today, he isn't over dressed. He spots a pink short sleeved shirt on brown trousers with a black tie, and of course, an enticing pink shaded mask to match. He began, calmly and confidently:
'My poem is more African than it is national, and it's titled: 'UNTIL......'
Until it snows in Kenya
and it frosts in Ghana,
until there's winter in Guinea
and it's temperate in Equatorial Guinea,
and blacks become whites,
then Africa remains backwards
and ha ha ha ha..........
such can never be!
it is an outright impossibility!
Until the great Paul Biya*
suddenly administers the US
until 'legendary' Musoveni*
is England's prime minister,
then Africa remains hopeless
and ha ha ha ha..........
such can never be!
as they love power more than life!
Until a State Security boss
and a crime detective boss
in Togo and Zimbabwe,
heads the FBI and CIA,
then Africa remains stunted
and ha ha ha ha...........
such can never be!
they are legal criminals!
Until a senator in Nigeria
is fairly elected in Berlin
until a Zambian legislator
is a popular choice in Oslo,
then Africa remains retarded
and ha ha ha ha .........
such can never be!
cos rigging is their mastery!
*Paul Biya(President of Cameroon). *Musoveni(President of Uganda)
Until a police chief
in the rainbow nation
and her Malian counterpart,
oversee Scotland Yard and the MIG,
then Africa remains confused
and ha ha ha ha.............
such can never be!
as they bask in incompetence!
Until they respect power
until criminality is abhorred
until they embrace competence
until rigging is eschewed
until they fit in anywhere
until respected internationally,
frolic always, with barbarism.
'That's the end of my poem. Thanks for listening.' He informed and appreciated as he made his way down the podium.
It was a controversial poem as it split the audience along lines of continental patriots and those, who like the Masked Poet believe the truth has to be said the way it is if Africa wants to make any headway amongst the committee of nations. As a result, the cheers and ovation that accompanied his exit was reduced as well along such parallels. Nevertheless, it remained loud and prolonged; nevertheless, irrespective of differing opinions the poem's and its writer's soundness was generally appreciated.
But if the Masked Poet's African/national categorical poem was controversial, the audience were in for more controversy as the second contestant, Rosemary Bola, concentrating on Africa still, particularly Sub Saharan Africa, towed the Masked Poet's continental poetic dismissal and pessimism. Upon being called up by the compere as next to present her poem in the reigning category, on the podium, she began:
'My poem is also African centered, particularly Sub Saharan Africa, more than it is epic, and the reason is not farfetched, rather, won't be farfetched. It is titled: 'THEY ARE ALL THE SAME..... '
I love propaganda
I hate propaganda
of course I love it
when it supports my cause
naturally l hate it
when it opposes my cause....
I make bold to say
that all Africanism proponents
are propagandist components
who are truth abstinents
and destabilizing elements
who can upturn continents!
Their many favoured postulations,
bogus about their climes
have withered with the times
and fallen off rational lines
in their Sub Saharan clines.
They are all the same!
l mean, all down the Sahara!
They have similar roads
which can't navigate two cars
and are full of slimy potholes
a jostle for vehicles and pedestrians.
They are all the same!
they have similar markets
that are characteristically dirty
probably close to dump sites
bereft of sanitation and hygiene
like oil wasted from an engine.
They are all the same!
they have more poor citizens
so made by an avaricious few
who live in shanties for shelter
who drink contaminated water
feeding on nonnutritious matter.
They are all the same!
climes of mosquitoes and malaria
nests of cholera and diarrhoea
isles of meningitis and measles
the world's disease headquarters
the defiant of many remedies.
They are all the same!
repositories of myths and superstition
haven for fanaticism and religion
science stifling atmospheres
environments technology dread
perpetual continental villagers.
They are all the same!
They have ferocious leaders
posing as pseudo monarchs
or first class embezzlers
witless of dynamic leadership
classic continental hijackers.
They are all the same!
dens of disillusioned citizens
incarnated in unpatriotic nationals
whose spirits dwell in the West
whose bodies drown in migration
then, are repatriated by illegality.
They are all the same!
in the wilderness of backwardness
where yonder remains unattainable.
'This is where it ends. Thank you.' A sweet smile followed her shrill and equally melodious voice as she vacated the stage back to her seat.
A disproportionate hearty ovation followed her exit. By now, the atmosphere has been besieged by a cloud of gloom from these no nonsense poets who are ready to bare their minds about the state of the continent without fear or favour and with little thought to whose ox is gored. But despite the atmosphere, there would be nothing the audience will do should the last contestant tow the same path as her proceeding co-contestants. However, they prayed and hoped, especially the pro continentals cum pro epics, that she is coming to lift the mood. Eventually, she was invited to the podium by the compere, and to the delight of many, she was vehemently distinct by light years, from her fellow contestants:
'Without focusing on the previous poems before me, l want to inform mine will be different in categorical item and mood. The poem is titled: 'THE STEALTH CAMPAIGNS.....'
There are series of campaigns
stealth campaigns on going
campaigns imposed on Nigeria
by Shylocks of the West
up to stop a destined star.
There are series of campaigns
well articulated and crafted
campaigns instilled on this nation
by well known supremacists
perpetuating a scripted disparity.
There is a campaign of calumny
upon Nigeria and on Nigerians
not premised on veracity
yet encapsulated in an agenda
to deprecate our nationals
to depreciate our industry
and cast off our contributions
because we are that good
with potentials to supersede.
But fail will the campaign
cos our industry and potentials
shall bring it to shame.
There is a campaign of brain drain
a stealth and unsuspecting one
redirecting our best to them
by seductions and enticements
even having them for keeps!
Yet they falsely evangelize
we have no 'bests.'
But fail has the campaign:
cos the achievement bells
keep announcing our bests
amongst the world's bests.
There is a campaign of looting
systematically, our natural resources
endowments they have not
endowments they envy
which abounds in Nigeria
so, they keep coming
for our oil, for our gas
they keep coming
for our fresh agro products
they keep coming
for our tusks, for our ivories
they keep coming
for contracts, for exploration
yet they found an axiom:
nothing good happens there
nothing profitable is there.
But fail will the campaign:
we've burnt all short changing.
There is a campaign of collusion
in racketeering and laundering
to teach a few corruption
to get a few corrupted
by bribery and kickbacks
by banking embezzled funds
and then turning around
hailing fantastically corrupt
painting all else black
originating the vice
teaching the vice
perpetuating the vice
yet casting aspersions
whereas the blood in us
is coloured in sincerity!
But the campaign has failed:
the beautiful ones are now born.
There is a campaign of infamy
of Nigeria being the hatchery
of eerie ailments and maladies
with intimidating death rates
ever so false and questionable
forecasting teetotal annihilation
a wonder we still exist
but they hide their surprise
as they know very well
if the black death visited
we would have survived it
we would have resisted it
and not lost the myriad lives
Europe granted that killer.
Such is our resilience
the resilient Nigerian spirit
which is deliberately despised!
But fail has the campaign
cos despite all the campaigns
they fail and are failing.
It's a test to our versatility
a test to our strength in depth.
'The poem ends here. Thanks for your audience.' She informed all as she alighted from the stage.
She equally received a loud and wild cheer accompanied with a wholehearted applause from especially her fans at this moment - the pro nationalists.
The compere afterwards called on the audience to appreciate the finalist once again with a resounding applause, asserting she had a thrilling time listening to such wonderful poems from minds which are indisputably brillian
t. Then, she announced the finalists just moved up a gear to the second category which is sonnets. As usual, the gentleman, the only gentleman amongst the finalist was asked to give honour to the ladies by once again starting the rounds, as she called the Masked Poet to the stage amidst cheers from his contingency in-house fans.
On the stage, the Masked Poet informed his sonnet is Shakespearean with the title: 'ALL GIRLS ARE BEAUTIFUL ON SUNDAY MORNINGS....'
Most girls are as ugly as ducklings
most others are extremely beautiful
but on all fair Sunday mornings,
all girls become inexplicably beautiful.
Nkechi* is my next door neighbour
who looks like a bold vulture
a girl I so love to abhor
Whether now or even in the future.
So, to church, Sunday May first
nicely dressed up with smooth make up
I suddenly realize she's the finest
mouth agape, off fell my tea cup!
I quickly blocked her too!
'Pretty, l....think..... I love you!'
'That's it. Thanks once again.'
'Wow!.........yeah.........o-o-o-o-o-o...........the Masked Poet, the Masked Poet....' The crowd hailed wholeheartedly.
The compere next called on the beautiful Rosemary who subsequently told the audience as she mounted the podium:
'Ladies and gentlemen, my sonnet would be Miltonic and is titled: 'THE PRIMORDIAL TRAP.'
In Nigeria is a common trend
in Nigeria is a similar pattern
it started right with the aborigines
they cared only about their stomachs
disregarding improved living standards.
Then surfaced the'eternal' ancestors
who killed all else except theirs
and institutionalized the backwardness
called myths, traditions, customs, superstitions.
Their successors are the elders
*Nkechi(female given name)
who embezzle, steal, aggrandize