BHM: Friday Poetry

Since the African authors on the meme drew the most question marks, I thought I'd offer today a little poetry from Nigeria for Friday Poetry Blogging. Wole Soyinka is a well-known Nobel Prize Laureate, while Lola Shoneyin is an emerging voice in Nigerian literature. Go here for an interview with Shoneyin.

Telephone Conversation by Wole Soyinka
The price seemed reasonable, location
Indifferent. The landlady swore she lived
Off premises. Nothing remained
But self-confession. 'Madam,' I warned,
'I hate a wasted journey--I am African.'
Silence. Silenced transmission of
Pressurized good-breeding. Voice, when it came,
Lipstick coated, long gold-rolled
Cigarette-holder pipped. Caught I was foully.
'HOW DARK?'. . . I had not misheard . . . 'ARE YOU LIGHT
OR VERY DARK?' Button B. Button A. Stench
Of rancid breath of public hide-and-speak.
Red booth. Red pillar box. Red double-tiered
Omnibus squelching tar. It was real! Shamed
By ill-mannered silence, surrender
Pushed dumbfounded to beg simplification.
Considerate she was, varying the emphasis--
'ARE YOU DARK? OR VERY LIGHT?' Revelation came.
'You mean--like plain or milk chocolate?'
Her assent was clinical, crushing in its light
Impersonality. Rapidly, wave-length adjusted,
I chose. 'West African sepia'--and as afterthought,
'Down in my passport.' Silence for spectroscopic
Flight of fancy, till truthfulness clanged her accent
Hard on the mouthpiece. 'WHAT'S THAT?' conceding
'DON'T KNOW WHAT THAT IS.' 'Like brunette.'
'THAT'S DARK, ISN'T IT?' 'Not altogether.
Facially, I am brunette, but, madam, you should see
The rest of me. Palm of my hand, soles of my feet
Are a peroxide blond. Friction, caused--
Foolishly, madam--by sitting down, has turned
My bottom raven black--One moment, madam!'--sensing
Her receiver rearing on the thunderclap
About my ears--'Madam,' I pleaded, 'wouldn't you rather
See for yourself?'

Selection from: Modern African Poetry (3rd edition)

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She Tried by Lola Shoneyin
She tried to be a doctor
But they said
The enamel paint on her talons
Stained the scapel.

She tried to be a lawyer
But they said
Her skirts way too high,
Distracted the judge.

She tried to be a teacher
But they said
Her voice was too weak,
Not quite loud enough to control the children.

She tried to be a writer
But they said
She needed guts
And of course, that phallic mind.

So, she tried to be a woman.
They pat her on the back
And showed her the kitchen, the garden
... and the bed.

From her first collection of poetry So All the Time I Was Sitting on an Egg

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