murtala muhammad airport (3)

murtala muhammad airport

september 4, 1981,

ikeja nigeria

i am stiff with apprehension. how different four
interminable days ago when apprehensive amble
now was gallivanting gait; giant steps naive &
exuberant. today i wary walk through this echoing
corridor, my eyes scouting ahead, my stomach
writhing with warning. so much noise; so many people.
immigrations, like four stations of the cross, is besieged
by arriving passengers; a mob of pressed pushing flesh
with a thousand arms, waving in the air like reeds in
the wind, waving passports & papers, beckoning,
beseeching the harried, but unhurried officers who
randomly select documents to process. no line, no
pretense of order, i stand rearward of the mob &
prepare for a long wait.
suddenly, i see my name flash, misspelled, on a makeshift
sign held by a plump, deferential black man. i wave to
him. he comes forward, introduces himself as o–-;
says everything is arranged. he takes my passport
& papers & melts into the mob. sudden anxiety

inflates a balloon in my chest when he disappears;

expands to panic in the passing moments. despairing,

desperate, i search for him among the faces clustered

near, berating myself for again being so gullible; a
stranger's affliction. but, as i mind-made-up move
to report my loss, he reappears like a sorcerer, with
an apprentice, & writing magical runes in the steaming
air, points me & the boy to the baggage claim.the balloon
in my chest deflates with a whoosh; my head swoons with
relief & i deliriously divulge to my new & trusted friend
the number of bags i have; my experience in liberia; my
apprehension of customs. he nods gravely, looks concerned,
& says nothing, except a few harsh barks in yoruba to send
the boy to get the luggage trolley and my bags.we wait for
him to return in silence. i stay the again mounting anxiety
by turning my attention to the airport throng ...

focus on that blur of chocolate & caramel faces,
with a white one or two or three marbling the mixture;
focus on the parade of lace, dutchwax & hollandaise.
the melodious strains of yoruba swell & cascade around
me in tones derivative of or acting upon a loud, lusty life
pulse.an incomprehensible english breaks in the air & is
hastily put back together again in a tonal mosaic. there
is urgency here...can be heard in the swish of expensive
cloth; in frantic calls for stewards; in the rush of shabbily
clad porters chasing down tips.there is convergence here...
people greeting each other caricature their joy in seeing
one another. some fall to the ground in abrupt, ritual
respect. dark seeming sullen faces nova into dazzling
smiles when recognized; high pitched ejaculations of
laughter waft above anonymous noise. there is sensuality
here... in the long graceful necks of slim yellow-brown girls;
in plump purple-black matrons whose george-cloth bottoms
rise & fall to prurient polyrhythms; in the eyes of comely
women of all shades of black who with a glance can assess,
entice or dismiss. & there is wealth & power... subtle
in the confident clusters of white folk, cardin casual,
smelling of st laurent & lanvin; ostentatious in the floppy
or conical-capped, gown-garbed black men with bulging
attaches,who are surrounded by sycophantic attendants
who fawn,who flutter, who fuss. i am swept up in the
fast-changing scene...

the boy returns with the baggage trolley. as he loads the
four suitcases & the large 3x5 foot locker, i tightly grip my
camera bag; can no longer contain my anxiety. it oozes
out of my pores with sweat. luggage loaded, we follow, o–-
& i, that trolley to the customs checkpoint; to the waiting
inquisition. there is no line. the boy pushes the trolley past
the customs station. i almost call out to him, but am silenced
by a throat-throttling glance from o–-. the customs man on
duty turns to speak to a policeman standing by; doesn't
acknowledge our infraction or our presence. shocked, i
looked to o–- for an explanation. he only smiles & winks.
outside, in the airport foyer, he magnanimously tips the boy
ten naira, in two five naira bills; one, he says, is for
the boy, the other is for the... mosquitoes... & he laughs

a loud belly-shaking laugh. welcome to nigeria, he says!

© Joseph McNair; 1984-2009

eşu (1)

eşu

african tankas

in the primeval,
orima, eşu’s demesne,
deep darkness prevailed.
in a translucent enclave
layered above that darkness,

a tiny lightseed
lay. olódùmaré spoke
the word “onovoo!”
orima, the darkness that
was eşu’s kingdom, lit up.

eşu raised his head.
“who is this that brings the light?”
the great mystery’s
booming voice filled orima.
“i am olódùmaré.

“i created light
that life might bloom & flourish.”
“but i own the dark,”
eşu exclaimed! “the dark is
not so conducive to life”

olódùmaré
said. “i have taken much from
u, but to u i
give this. u may mix & move
freely among all of my
creations. no law or rule

will bind u. u will
be first among òrìşà
& they will call u
divine messenger, gatekeeper &
guardian of heaven’s realms,

owner of paths, roads,
& doorways, mediator
of fate.” but eşu
spoke not aloud the words in
his heart & secretly vowed

that vegetation
blooming in the brightness of
light would be his garden;
& all manner of beings
created in the vastness

of space would serve him!
olódùmaré finished
his creative work;
created divinities,
plants, animals & man.
intended them to be good.

but eşu soon had
òrìşà fighting with each
other & humans
defying & denying
the great powers of heaven!

& eşu’s laughter
rang loudly & often in
ọrun & àiyé,
in heaven & on the earth,
he reveled in the fact that

there was no such place

he could not go, no language
he could not speak &
no such rule he could not break!
okunrin ori ita!

man of the crossroads,
eşu’s power develops
in human beings good, strong
character, ọnápade.
he sits at & in between

the doors of childhood,
adolescence, adulthood
with all & sundry
tests & trials of right choices;
a teacher both kind & cruel.

woe if that power
is used capriciously; for
selfish gain or self-
gratification; without
consideration for the

well-being of those
with whom we live. for eşu
tests & tries us all;
tests our strengths & weaknesses
makes us do with what we have.

eşu uses anger
& bleak despair to drive us,
uses happiness
& love to draw us, from birth
to death, demanding the right

choice of doorway, path
or crossroad along the way.
his great energy
flows against the tide thru the
cracks & crevices of fate;

gives capacity
to truly live with chaos,
ambiguity,
& on life’s imposing terms.

mojuba eşu
pa ado asubi da
(turn my suffering
around) lord of the crossroads
lanlu ogirioko
(speak with power!)


© Joseph McNair; 2009

let there be light (26)

let there be light!

let there be light! the seeker cries
before the hoodwink leaves his eyes,
& thus doth he in awe behold
the goddess, the exquisite mold
of man; who tempts the would-be wise.

veiled isis sits beneath the skies
no less than nature in disguise;
& nature’s boon to grant, withhold?
her mysteries.

his inner sight to his surprise
beholds the light he seeks; that prize
bequeathed the pure in heart. the gold
reduced, the argent vive foretold –
her mysteries!


© Joseph McNair; 2009

veiled isis (25)

veiled isis

a lunar eclipse –

earth comes between moon & sun:

thus is isis veiled.

the mother goddess tween two pillars sits;
her priestess aspect manifest. she’s known
by many names. but here – & matching wits
& wiles with those who’d breach her guard – alone
blocks passage of cowans through wisdom’s gate
who fail her tests & trials. let dilettantes beware,
this one has raised the dead; revived her late
dismembered spouse & bore his child. have care!
unless u know a peace beyond torment;
are girded ‘gainst that which she surely brings –
yr past revealed in a single moment;
yr inmost sins & follies dredged –she springs,
a hungry sphinx, should u her queries fail.
her name is isis, wearer of the veil.

© Joseph McNair; 2009

a goddess did give birth upon a throne (25)

a goddess did give birth upon a throne

a goddess did give birth upon a throne
while leopards watched lest she deliver alone;
queen cybele, the mistress of the wild,
did whelp a comely boy, a handsome child
& loved him like a lover fully grown.

her son, sweet attis, thrived, his beauty shone,
an evening star, a jewel, a precious stone –
& midas’ perfect daughter did beguile
her troth, for better or for worse.

just as his marriage song was being sung,
the son beheld his mother; was undone.
he took a knife, unmanned himself & smiled;
a corpse & castrate died that hapless child.
she snatched him back from death, now hers alone,
in sooth, for better or for worse.

© Joseph McNair; 2009

man with a sign (23)

man with a sign

he is statuestoic, cruciformtall & planted
like a grim, gnarly tree by the river of waters
near the one eighty third st. & twenty-seventh ave
bus stop, there each morning before sunrise even when
the sun doesn’t show. his sign screams “repent ye for the
kingdom of heaven is at hand!” at motorists &
bus riders & pedestrians alike. the dark shadows
cast about his opaque & angular face, black &
foreboding, even more than the hand scrawled words on his
time-crumpled poster. he stands to the morning rush hour,
a bleak promise of hell’s certainty, at the outer
perimeters of fierce faith, angry & onward, a real
christian soldier, a devil’s doppelganger of doom!

© Joseph McNair; 2009