Nwatu's Confession - 3 Poem by Victor Okey Nwatu

I’m at it again; encore, again.
Still me and my always cagey confessions;
Still constantly bountiful, like July rain;
Still an admix of countless emotions.

It’s still my life with the XY-chromosomed figures
Yes, of the ones shaped like the hourglass.
It’s about our lives together, and its rigours.
Though now of a damsel of another class….


Emotionally was at my lowest ebb;
as high as the least known syncline.
Was like an arachnid outside its web;
a bald man with no cap living on the Line

I was a swordless, kimonoless samurai;
an eunuch playing pipe in the pillow world.
Lost my skateboard when the tide’s still high;
a Cicero without his spoken word.

I sought to fill this loss, this hiatus
Par l’apprendre de la langue française.
And it was in its sounds in my auditory meatus,
that we collided; two runners in a haze.


And when the haze cleared, I saw
that you were a prized Picasso on display.
Viewed in desirous awe by the young art major,
who defies the elements to your stand, everyday.

The Art professor regards you with a sigh,
as he contemplates you all the time.
‘cos newer works are never, in standards, high.
Of a truth, all merit same label – artistic crime.

The collector’s eyes see you as mere digits.
Or at best, a single colour – monochronic green.
For your value, he perceives no upper limits
to the number of Benjies – with their backs green.

And you mean the world to the good ole Pablo.
That’s why he sleeps less often …
Any poacher of yours, he’ll definitely blow …
Keeps a loaded revolver, by his side, in the coffin.


Your boldness is simply Meg Thatcher;
you can put your foot down on the ground.
And your pinky royalty – Cleopatra;
you deserve our diadem in its every pound.

Your culinary skills give me chills;
Evokes feelings for my mum, Francisca.
You run the home with Usain Bolt skills.
And that, no contingency, can ever mar.

You’re an Einstein on and off the book;
without the sticking tongue and the bushy hair.
For an answer, you always know where to look;
‘cos your smartness is always brought to bare…

Tyra Banks in her prime; that’s your frame;
makes me blush to death over my apple body.
You’re gorgeous; Kim Kardashian’s the name;
elicit cat calls from any mouth-owning body.

You emulate Mother Theresa in kindness;
the type that’s selfless, straight from the heart.
And Francisca, again, is your beacon in motherliness;
‘cos, for me, she had excellently played that part.


Would this third confession be, of its type, the last?
Or would I fais la confession de la quatrième numero?
Would what we have now ever last?
Would a multi-stage cake’s top contain we duo?

Would we, without brakes, ride this vélo?
Jump the gun; get sent off after some false starts?
Would we rather move with caution, be mellow?
And never shatter and splatter each other’s hearts?

Would you wear white and I wear black?
Would we grace the runway of the aisle?
Would we perpetually get each other’s back?
Or is this a flash in the pan, just for the while?


Risks, uncertainties and forecasts are many stock in trade
But for the reservoir of the heart, I’m at sea.
I just pray that ours be a long-term trade
That would last for long; eternity, maybe.

Mar-2010