The Masked Poet Read online

  THE MASKED POET

  The true story of beauty and the beast......

  a novel

  CHAPTER 1

  'Ladies and gentlemen, the three finalists are:

  Cynthia Esit....

  Rosemary Bola....

  And.....

  The Masked Poet.........'

  These were the words of the compere announcing the list of three finalists she received from the judges who had chosen them from a list of ten, earlier arrived at from an unending number of entries for the inaugural edition of the 'Fiesta of Poems,' proposed to be a yearly national platform for unearthing the next generation of poets by the Literary Society of Nigeria. The audience, who have keenly followed, and as well, enjoyed all the moments of this weeklong competition, being entertained to flurries of unique shades of poems, clapped and cheered wildly as soon as those names were mentioned. Having listened to the participants read out classic poems they have written out of sheer creativity and invention, they had picked out their perceived personal bests from the lot and were eagerly awaiting the fate of those from the panel of judges. At such, despite a few being disappointed with one or two names they liked missing out, still, majority were in agreement with the final selection.

  'Now,' the compere spoke again, interrupting the audience's cheers and applause, and in the process, instilling an atmosphere of silence on the crowd, 'for the golden prize, these finalists are going to write and read out poems on these four categories: African/national; sonnet(the participants can make a choice of any they prefer); romantic; and any other, touching on any matter of personal observation(this can be described as freestyle). Once again, l outline the categories: African/national, sonnet, romantic, and freestyle as in personal issue or concern which nevertheless must meet poetic standards in all its ramifications. So, first to be invited to the stage for his African/epic poem, is...........the Masked Poet.........'

  Before he gets to read his poem, the Masked Poet requires a bit of special attention by way of a special description as he was different in appearance from all others who entered for the competition because of his mask. He is male, 26years of age, with an height hovering around 5 feet 7 inches, meaning he was not the tallest of men but of absolutely appreciable height. He is also slightly chubby, dark complexioned, and the type of hair on his head was in between that which is characteristically negro, and the curly caucasian type. The most attractive aspect of his appearance is his face, or rather, his facelessness. This facelessness is in turn made possible by the specially crafted but extremely admirable and colourful mask which covers his face like 'Lagbaja.' He is however, clearly different from Lagbaja, the famous afro-pop singer of Yoruba descent in Nigeria who according to that stage name of his, interpreted to mean faceless, covers his face when in public view with a not so attractive and outrightly dull veil, so as not to be known; in that though faceless, the Masked Poet wore, courtesy of his mask, a sweeter face than Lagbaja's, and probably even more handsome than his natural face who knows, since the face cannot be seen? His mask, though of the same structure and making, often appeared in different colours. But they are always beautiful, very very beautiful. They are not like those scary masks in horror movies, neither are they those terrifying masks of cultural masquerades meant to achieve a well scripted purpose; rather, it ranks amongst the sweetest masks ever produced, also ever seen. His masks are attraction itself; many girls fell for the masks more than the man behind it. Those masks are that seducing. But that is on one side - the most attractive aspect to his physicality. There is however, the most attractive aspect to his personality - his mental and intellectual abilities. Appropriately put, his poetic acumen. His poems are not only pleasant to the ears and captivating to the imagination, but are also thought provoking, nostalgic, sentimental, controversial, and any other imagery he wants them portrayed. From infancy, it was noted his poems held listening audiences spellbound and made the world standstill. For this competition, he chose to be called 'the Masked Poet' as against his official name. It was no problem for the organizers as there was no other 'Masked Poet' anywhere around, probably in the whole world. As soon as the compere announced his name as the first participant to get on stage for the first category of poems, the audience cheered and cheered:

  'The Masked Poet

  The Masked Poet

  Charming poet

  Friendly poet.'

  They chanted as he climbed the podium. Today, he isn't over dressed. He spots a pink short sleeved shirt on brown trousers with a black tie, and of course, an enticing pink shaded mask to match. He began, calmly and confidently:

  'My poem is more African than it is national, and it's titled: 'UNTIL......'

  Until it snows in Kenya

  and it frosts in Ghana,

  until there's winter in Guinea

  and it's temperate in Equatorial Guinea,

  and blacks become whites,

  then Africa remains backwards

  and ha ha ha ha..........

  such can never be!

  it is an outright impossibility!

  Until the great Paul Biya*

  suddenly administers the US

  until 'legendary' Musoveni*

  is England's prime minister,

  then Africa remains hopeless

  and ha ha ha ha..........

  such can never be!

  as they love power more than life!

  Until a State Security boss

  and a crime detective boss

  in Togo and Zimbabwe,

  heads the FBI and CIA,

  then Africa remains stunted

  and ha ha ha ha...........

  such can never be!

  they are legal criminals!

  Until a senator in Nigeria

  is fairly elected in Berlin

  until a Zambian legislator

  is a popular choice in Oslo,

  then Africa remains retarded

  and ha ha ha ha .........

  such can never be!

  cos rigging is their mastery!

  *Paul Biya(President of Cameroon). *Musoveni(President of Uganda)

  Until a police chief

  in the rainbow nation

  and her Malian counterpart,

  oversee Scotland Yard and the MIG,

  then Africa remains confused

  and ha ha ha ha.............

  such can never be!

  as they bask in incompetence!

  Until they respect power

  until criminality is abhorred

  until they embrace competence

  until rigging is eschewed

  until they fit in anywhere

  until respected internationally,

  then Africa, and her people,

  frolic always, with barbarism.

  'That's the end of my poem. Thanks for listening.' He informed and appreciated as he made his way down the podium.

  It was a controversial poem as it split the audience along lines of continental patriots and those, who like the Masked Poet believe the truth has to be said the way it is if Africa wants to make any headway amongst the committee of nations. As a result, the cheers and ovation that accompanied his exit was reduced as well along such parallels. Nevertheless, it remained loud and prolonged; nevertheless, irrespective of differing opinions the poem's and its writer's soundness was generally appreciated.

  But if the Masked Poet's African/national categorical poem was controversial, the audience were in for more controversy as the second contestant, Rosemary Bola, concentrating on Africa still, particularly Sub Saharan Africa, towed the Masked Poet's continental poetic dismissal and pessimism. Upon being called up by the compere as next to present her poem in the reigning category, on the podium, she began:
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  'My poem is also African centered, particularly Sub Saharan Africa, more than it is epic, and the reason is not farfetched, rather, won't be farfetched. It is titled: 'THEY ARE ALL THE SAME..... '

  I love propaganda

  I hate propaganda

  of course I love it

  when it supports my cause

  naturally l hate it

  when it opposes my cause....

  I make bold to say

  that all Africanism proponents

  are propagandist components

  who are truth abstinents

  and destabilizing elements

  who can upturn continents!

  Their many favoured postulations,

  bogus about their climes

  have withered with the times

  and fallen off rational lines

  in their Sub Saharan clines.

  They are all the same!

  l mean, all down the Sahara!

  They have similar roads

  which can't navigate two cars

  and are full of slimy potholes

  a jostle for vehicles and pedestrians.

  They are all the same!

  they have similar markets

  that are characteristically dirty

  probably close to dump sites

  bereft of sanitation and hygiene

  like oil wasted from an engine.

  They are all the same!

  they have more poor citizens

  so made by an avaricious few

  who live in shanties for shelter

  who drink contaminated water

  feeding on nonnutritious matter.

  They are all the same!

  climes of mosquitoes and malaria

  nests of cholera and diarrhoea

  isles of meningitis and measles

  the world's disease headquarters

  the defiant of many remedies.

  They are all the same!

  repositories of myths and superstition

  haven for fanaticism and religion

  science stifling atmospheres

  environments technology dread

  perpetual continental villagers.

  They are all the same!

  They have ferocious leaders

  posing as pseudo monarchs

  or first class embezzlers

  witless of dynamic leadership

  classic continental hijackers.

  They are all the same!

  dens of disillusioned citizens

  incarnated in unpatriotic nationals

  whose spirits dwell in the West

  whose bodies drown in migration

  then, are repatriated by illegality.

  They are all the same!

  they are all together

  in the wilderness of backwardness

  where yonder remains unattainable.

  'This is where it ends. Thank you.' A sweet smile followed her shrill and equally melodious voice as she vacated the stage back to her seat.

  A disproportionate hearty ovation followed her exit. By now, the atmosphere has been besieged by a cloud of gloom from these no nonsense poets who are ready to bare their minds about the state of the continent without fear or favour and with little thought to whose ox is gored. But despite the atmosphere, there would be nothing the audience will do should the last contestant tow the same path as her proceeding co-contestants. However, they prayed and hoped, especially the pro continentals cum pro epics, that she is coming to lift the mood. Eventually, she was invited to the podium by the compere, and to the delight of many, she was vehemently distinct by light years, from her fellow contestants:

  'Without focusing on the previous poems before me, l want to inform mine will be different in categorical item and mood. The poem is titled: 'THE STEALTH CAMPAIGNS.....'

  There are series of campaigns

  stealth campaigns on going

  campaigns imposed on Nigeria

  by Shylocks of the West

  up to stop a destined star.

  There are series of campaigns

  well articulated and crafted

  campaigns instilled on this nation

  by well known supremacists

  perpetuating a scripted disparity.

  There is a campaign of calumny

  upon Nigeria and on Nigerians

  not premised on veracity

  yet encapsulated in an agenda

  to deprecate our nationals

  to depreciate our industry

  and cast off our contributions

  because we are that good

  with potentials to supersede.

  But fail will the campaign

  cos our industry and potentials

  shall bring it to shame.

  There is a campaign of brain drain

  a stealth and unsuspecting one

  redirecting our best to them

  by seductions and enticements

  even having them for keeps!

  Yet they falsely evangelize

  we have no 'bests.'

  But fail has the campaign:

  cos the achievement bells

  keep announcing our bests

  amongst the world's bests.

  There is a campaign of looting

  systematically, our natural resources

  endowments they have not

  endowments they envy

  which abounds in Nigeria

  so, they keep coming

  for our oil, for our gas

  they keep coming

  for our fresh agro products

  they keep coming

  for our tusks, for our ivories

  they keep coming

  for contracts, for exploration

  yet they found an axiom:

  nothing good happens there

  nothing profitable is there.

  But fail will the campaign:

  we've burnt all short changing.

  There is a campaign of collusion

  in racketeering and laundering

  to teach a few corruption

  to get a few corrupted

  by bribery and kickbacks

  by banking embezzled funds

  and then turning around

  hailing fantastically corrupt

  painting all else black

  originating the vice

  teaching the vice

  perpetuating the vice

  yet casting aspersions

  whereas the blood in us

  is coloured in sincerity!

  But the campaign has failed:

  the beautiful ones are now born.

  There is a campaign of infamy

  of Nigeria being the hatchery

  of eerie ailments and maladies

  with intimidating death rates

  ever so false and questionable

  forecasting teetotal annihilation

  a wonder we still exist

  but they hide their surprise

  as they know very well

  if the black death visited

  we would have survived it

  we would have resisted it

  and not lost the myriad lives

  Europe granted that killer.

  Such is our resilience

  the resilient Nigerian spirit

  which is deliberately despised!

  But fail has the campaign

  cos despite all the campaigns

  they fail and are failing.

  It's a test to our versatility

  a test to our strength in depth.

  'The poem ends here. Thanks for your audience.' She informed all as she alighted from the stage.

  She equally received a loud and wild cheer accompanied with a wholehearted applause from especially her fans at this moment - the pro nationalists.

  The compere afterwards called on the audience to appreciate the finalist once again with a resounding applause, asserting she had a thrilling time listening to such wonderful poems from minds which are indisputably brillian
t. Then, she announced the finalists just moved up a gear to the second category which is sonnets. As usual, the gentleman, the only gentleman amongst the finalist was asked to give honour to the ladies by once again starting the rounds, as she called the Masked Poet to the stage amidst cheers from his contingency in-house fans.

  On the stage, the Masked Poet informed his sonnet is Shakespearean with the title: 'ALL GIRLS ARE BEAUTIFUL ON SUNDAY MORNINGS....'

  Most girls are as ugly as ducklings

  most others are extremely beautiful

  but on all fair Sunday mornings,

  all girls become inexplicably beautiful.

  Nkechi* is my next door neighbour

  who looks like a bold vulture

  a girl I so love to abhor

  Whether now or even in the future.

  So, to church, Sunday May first

  nicely dressed up with smooth make up

  I suddenly realize she's the finest

  mouth agape, off fell my tea cup!

  I quickly blocked her too!

  'Pretty, l....think..... I love you!'

  'That's it. Thanks once again.'

  'Wow!.........yeah.........o-o-o-o-o-o...........the Masked Poet, the Masked Poet....' The crowd hailed wholeheartedly.

  The compere next called on the beautiful Rosemary who subsequently told the audience as she mounted the podium:

  'Ladies and gentlemen, my sonnet would be Miltonic and is titled: 'THE PRIMORDIAL TRAP.'

  In Nigeria is a common trend

  in Nigeria is a similar pattern

  it started right with the aborigines

  they cared only about their stomachs

  disregarding improved living standards.

  Then surfaced the'eternal' ancestors

  who killed all else except theirs

  and institutionalized the backwardness

  called myths, traditions, customs, superstitions.

  Their successors are the elders

  *Nkechi(female given name)

  who embezzle, steal, aggrandize