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Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi, By Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo ‣

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi, and dressed him in a bishop’s gown the day Shettima had his ascension ritual. However Omatseye forgot to take away the worth tag. Perhaps it was intentional. Perhaps he wished to be caught. Or possibly, simply possibly, he wished to embarrass his warlords in Daura. We predict Daura as a result of Omatseye would dare not embarrass the Jagaban of scented offal.

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi in his piece titled “Obi-tuary.” Like a crocodile lady, I wept for Obi-dient disciples. I’m positive they may spend the subsequent 40 days and 40 nights gnashing their yellow tooth held collectively by customised toy braces. However what he did to the Biafrans in the identical column made me surprise if no one has ever hugged Sam Omatseye and advised him that his story of Biafra is legitimate, and as such, he shouldn’t lose contact along with his scented offal.

I like the poetry of Sam Omatseye. It’s his prose that I’ve an issue with. Any author can simply lie in prose product of winding paragraphs. However no author has been capable of lie efficiently in floating unknown poetry. I don’t know why. However I believe it should have one thing to do with the shape. Worrying about meters, mining for rhyme, stopping for stanza, rolling tongues for rhythm, posturing for personification, licking lips in lyric, alleging in allegory, mutating in imagery, altering actuality in alliteration, smiling for simile, metamorphosising within the alter metaphor, signing for syntax, fishing for onomatopoeia, high-fiving hyperbole, the poet all the time forgets to lie.

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi kpatakpata. He uncovered Obi’s Apapa nyash within the market. What everybody noticed wasn’t nice – dried poop, expired blood pointing at untreated hemorrhoids. But when he had gone too shut and wiped his glass away from Bola Tinubu’s saliva, he would have seen the ghost coming out of the veins resulting in probably the most delicate a part of the fowl’s anus. However he missed it. And by lacking it, he obtained himself arrested for clapping whereas the individuals who did the dancing had gone dwelling.

In poetry, individuals who hardly speak gossip about Awolowo, Jesus and all different saviours on the market within the fast-expanding universe. In prose, individuals who fail to seek the advice of Mandela’s bones earlier than they hit {the marketplace} to bounce, miss their steps, lose their minds and disappear like ogiri in bitter leaf soup. That’s the destiny that befell our beloved Sam Omatseye when he confused the wailing of the youngsters of the brand new Biafra with the autumn of the wall of Jericho when the Israelites carried the Ark of Covenant and walked round it for seven days. Whereas each are merchandise of our human situation, one emanates from the ‘understanding of our confusion,’ the opposite comes from the ‘confusion of our understanding.’

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi, even earlier than the wrestling match’s whistle was blown. He did it with a lot class and gusto that recruits gathered for the off-Broadway struggle had been dispersed dwelling. Even the pre-game wins of Peter Obi had been rapidly stripped off. Just like the medal that proclaimed that regardless of years of washing our palms in spittle, one thing healthful, one thing new, one thing contemporary is feasible. Additionally taken away was Peter Obi’s medal that said that regardless of the loud sounds of the drum of the spirit little one, one thing good may come out of the East. Sam Omatseye swept all these medals into Itsekiri gutters.

In his poetry assortment, Scented Offal, Sam Omatseye captures our cognitive dissonance when he sermonises thus:

“We may swear that our loins by no means joined
From previous instances
Within the rhythms of dances
Or in accents
Or in songs
Or within the patterns of the village sq.
Or the way in which the king hollered
Within the market…
Even when we foreswore our bonds or embraces
We may by no means deny the blood they spilled
Out of gourds of conflict
The blood of our brothers
The saliva of sisters…”

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi. Like a person who bathes within the breath of John Donne, by ending Peter Obi, Sam Omatseye prevented diminishing Sam Omatseye. His extreme kindness and sympathy had been irritating to the uninitiated. In any case, the scent of burnt choices has all the time appeased God. It did the identical magic for Sam Omatseye. We simply should now watch for the Jesus of Borgu to return and declare the top of the times of burnt choices.

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi, and dressed him in a bishop’s gown the day Shettima had his ascension ritual. However Omatseye forgot to take away the worth tag. Perhaps it was intentional. Perhaps he wished to be caught. Or possibly, simply possibly, he wished to embarrass his warlords in Daura. We predict Daura as a result of Omatseye would dare not embarrass the Jagaban of scented offal.

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A poet can hear the trumpet however can not make out the animal from which horn the sound was coming. As for a prose author, darkish issues restrict his thought. They weigh him down till his tail rolls on the poto poto left by yesterday’s rain. Within the shrine the place he worships, the whips hold. The reminiscences of the place they’ve landed on his shoulders are the one muse that he wants. That’s Sam Omatseye’s luck. Additionally it is his immunity from mental purgatory.

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi. Like a person who bathes within the breath of John Donne, by ending Peter Obi, Sam Omatseye prevented diminishing Sam Omatseye. His extreme kindness and sympathy had been irritating to the uninitiated. In any case, the scent of burnt choices has all the time appeased God. It did the identical magic for Sam Omatseye. We simply should now watch for the Jesus of Borgu to return and declare the top of the times of burnt choices. Till then, we be part of Sam Omatseye to benefit from the scent of the flesh romancing the hearth.

The poet dies who seeks permission to jot down his sonnets. Asking a barber in the event you want a haircut is an epic mistake. Sam Omatseye is aware of this. Each poet does, even these intoxicated by dialectics. Forlorn hope is the one baptism that results in exogenous laughter. However for poets preventing for spectators’ winks, no white cocks shall comply with them dwelling. Groupies will all the time sing, however it’s nothing however a requiem excessive mass of eerie riddles. Yeah, he can not watch for him to die earlier than he buries him. He can’t.

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi. He mentioned that Peter Obi was a closet anti-Christ who had come to take the youngsters of Nigeria to the Backyard of Gethsemane. If that’s the case, it meant that the Final Supper had been served. Did Sam Omatseye obtain his? Did Sam Omatseye get his toes washed? Was the wash performed with the water from Daura or the one from Bourdillon? What may go unsuitable if this cup passes away or if abruptly, there may be pleasure on the jap entrance?

A poet that went into the dictionary and fished out solely “rabble,” “taunts,” and “harangues” has a lifeline of redemption that has petered out. A poet who seduced his readers by ending an essay on tomorrow’s folks with an obituary is flying on a damaged wing. In a comic book allegory, a poet is ashamed in the course of the funeral of his opus. However this case of Sam Omatseye is totally different solely in the way in which the scented offal lastly decomposed.

The poet dies who fears flags waving within the air, anthems gushing out of audio system, and toes stomping on dusty famished apian methods. For calling the fervent prayers on Fb masturbation of freaks, for displaying smugness on the trembling tweets of the traumatised, for shrugging off as childish cacophony the Instagram sighs of the stagnated little kids of half of a yellow solar, the poet transforms right into a retiring prostitute of the fast-shrinking purple gentle district.

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi. However when he bundled Nnamdi Kanu up and lifted him in a present of acrobatic prowess, Kanu’s scrotum blinded him in a farewell to injustice. Even after Chido Onumah lectured him that “we’re all Biafrans,” he bellowed in his self-indicting chant, “I’m not the Biafran that you’re preventing for.” However what Biafran is he? He’s stingy along with his reply. He’s beneficiant along with his generalisation of the Igbo and Biafra with grudging ‘maybe’ appearing as a comma. With candy tooth, he invoked the zoo, hoping to have it impregnate the air. His title is Okoro, fairly proper. However that’s not why he should be mistaken for Igbo.

A poet that went into the dictionary and fished out solely “rabble,” “taunts,” and “harangues” has a lifeline of redemption that has petered out. A poet who seduced his readers by ending an essay on tomorrow’s folks with an obituary is flying on a damaged wing. In a comic book allegory, a poet is ashamed in the course of the funeral of his opus. However this case of Sam Omatseye is totally different solely in the way in which the scented offal lastly decomposed.

Sam Omatseye finished Peter Obi. And with that, he delivered the preface of his remaining testomony of the chronicle of a psychosis foretold. With the attainable exception of you, the correct honourable gentleman piper, each politician is a snot, my generalising pal. And so it’s that each columnist is a snowflake.

Overlook the poetics and the polemics. Sam Omatseye is a good columnist. And so is our village’s neighbourhood palm wine tapper. However in contrast to Sam Omatseye, our village’s neighbourhood palm wine tapper doesn’t reveal every little thing he noticed on prime of the palm tree.

Rudolf Ogoo Okonkwo teaches Publish-Colonial African Historical past on the Faculty of Visible Arts in New York Metropolis. He’s additionally the host of Dr. Damages Present. His books embody This American Life Sef, Kids of a Retired God, amongst others.


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