Al-Qassim Abdulsalam Uthman
Al-Qassim Abdulsalam Uthman is a Nigerian poet, born in 1992 in Dekina, a local
government area of Kogi State, Nigeria. He is a graduate of Kogi State
University and currently lives in Abuja, Nigeria, in the
western part of Africa. He calls himself the "Bloody Poet" and uses
the hashtag #BloodyPoet. He has written many poems yet to be published. "MY
MENTOR AND I" is a poem he has dedicated to his mentor, Professor Wole
Soyinka, for whom he has an undying love. His poem "Papa" was nominated for Best
of the Net in 2019 by Better Than Starbucks.
I WILL TELL GOD
I will tell God.........
Nigeria is a snake,
her venom makes me dizzy and pale.
If I die before noon
or in an evening of a full moon
Dig me a grave at the balcony
of the national assembly;
Make it shallow.
the size of their senses
And let them feast in the company of triumphant flies as my body stinks.
If I die,
Assemble my bones and make the president a fine bracelet and bangle.
Tell him to wear it
whenever his conscience fails to reason.
If I die,
I will tell God how I became a forgotten citizen of Nigeria.
LIBRARY OF DEATH
Life echoes nothing
but the alluring sounds of emptiness
Every day we sniff in a new array of
blank pages of untold stories
Stories of twos and fours striving
on a meal too large for the ant's mouth
This life is a library
Of books authored by men with kola-nut stained teeth
Each chapter comes with her own wisdom and wrinkles
Each wrinkle is a footnote
to a lesson learned
This life is a library of death lurking
behind dusty shelves
In death lie men who never cared to stain their teeth with the kola-nut of wisdom
Oh! how vanity rests upon vanity like piles of forgotten books!
Papa was bend and curve like a crescent moon.
He spoke softly but consistently, like the babble of an adamant baby.
He is wrinkle and veins running all over his crooked body like wiring done by
an apprentice electrician;
he is soon ripe for the belly of the obese mother earth, woe unto mother earth!
No flesh to eat this time,
papa died skinny and feeble.
This is for the child
the colour of a fading shadow
who lives at the cold bosom of death, thinking of facing tomorrow
and then at dawn
a new death casts her light aglow
This is for the child
whose song echoes like the tiring voice of a bellows
under the spilled milk
of the evening's beaming moon, they bow
for a trigger-happy gun man
in the hood will come with a
This is for Africa:
a coffin of mahogany and the perfume of Arabia
box her up and let
the children lift her shoulder-high
amid nursery rhymes
and glowing eyes
Take her down,
mother earth, where the worms are
This is for the African
child hopeless and homeless
whose mother wails
over the fallen fence of the household
Africa oh Africa
your sun no longer
lights up our paths
We are your children
lost in your hardship's dust
This is for all black children,
this is for me.
MY MENTOR AND I
In days of my nudity,
when dirt was my little pet,
before I knew myself,
and my guilt ...
have I adored you!
In days of my running nose and addled babbles
when my shabby clothes made me shaggy,
have I kept your portrait,
cleaner than my palm,
above my mat, where my wee eyes can behold
your greys sailing on a long Nile of wisdom.
In days of my blooming roses and tales of witnessing moonlight,
of willie willie and her evil half brothers,
in these days have I adored you.
In the days of my innocence, before the world stole it,
you scribbled the 'Abiku'
in mysterious lines and stanzas;
I read and memorise them like a sacred incantation,
and I wish to be you; like a jealous devil in a luxurious Eden.
I will be you when you submit to the waiting earth;
my hair will be grey and full like a pregnant cloud;
I will be another soyinka from a tribe of the kogi,
where rivers share endless love.
Beauty has a name,
in your eyes the sun sets,
beauty has a heart,
tender like uloma's,
at the beam of your skin the moon smiles,
beauty lives in the east,
far far away,
you twinkle like filaments of minted gold.
Haters are your clan's men who broadcast your failure and whisper your
Putting out my candle will not make yours shine any brighter.
I don't cry, I write poems instead. #BloodyPoet
In my blood are pigments of poems,
laced with lines of haemaglobin.