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They are sick and thought to be scary,
Their breath is contagious because
Like true chop-chairs,
They have been using the liquid of life to quench
The hellish appetite of their pharyngeal cavities.
Use the fat white spaghettis from the bodies
Of those they stole their remaining days
To ease their digestion, and the urine of those
They stole their sanity for their champagne.
Like Sigmund Freud’s intuitive psychologist,
Scare them into one of the abysses they dug
And make it worse than Daniel’s.
Play with them like brats do with colourful balloons.
Make them dread you more
By discouraging them from being discouraging
And giving them more reason to believe that their favorite
Game is in sight.
Restrict their parametre
And make the rules of the game more rigid,
Just as they like it,
Prick their psychics with their souvenirs and
Bruise their thoughts with their claws.
Contaminate their cloths with their lice,
Their beds with bugs
And transform their chateaux into
Shamanic mental asylums;
The shaman’s shrine.
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Awa Innocent Ndah
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