by Patrick Amaefule
I will cloy me with egregious wine,
if he re-course to rest, I won't dine;
his demise lives me open to reproach;
death that made me felt like cockroach,
a thief with trait that reeks;
City’s reeled of its re-entry this weeks.
Embrace me, O vice of drunkenness;
on the day of Achebe's death,
I will clothe me with tears which a death of no importance chiselled in me;
to learn of the mystery ,
I have grown much older than fledgling;
not any more regarded as stripling.
I’m not destitute of sheer senses;
the blind could see it without lenses.
by his death, I strut on the stage with independent feet;
and keep up appearances without great feat;
I could not guide my faculties with orison;
with earnest haste I crave for benison.
Drunk though as I am, I keep reckoning him;
few among many speak ill of him;
He made learning a house of stone;
it pinnacle seemed like cone;
a place where I learn new tricks;
palace of castle built with bricks,
where I resort for joy
Alas, why this extinction? The gift endowed us with is the envy of our enemy.
The man who sure knew the manner of the day is gone,
the laureate who best knew the way to the happy ending,
possessed the strength of youth in the morning,
held the sapience of age as an octogenarian.
Good bye the great man of the East
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