Habitation of Reeds and Rushes

I was compelled to re-edit the untouchable truths,
to sift through the madness of men
who built their homes on reeds and rushes.

Like the madman of Gadara,
my body stank of my own soul.
I controlled seasons,
played with the destiny of birds—
it was sweet in the beginning,
like forbidden touch,
and bitter gravel at the end.

I wandered like a lamb
that no beast dared attack.
Like a two-headed tortoise,
I was deliberate and self-destructive,
listening for whispers from a day that never came.
Prosperity flowed, and then:
wounds, warfare, waste.
I fed on sleepless nights,
nursed my defeats like pets.

Bored with the dormitory of life,
I stole from those who trusted me,
tamed my thoughts until they shone
with the purity of children.
But when we break our brothers
and mock our sisters,
we widen the gap between desire and grace.

It was the season of locusts—
pale and restless—
they landed in the suburbs of men
who prayed to idols of themselves.
No one noticed the strange creature
perched on my chest one evening,
its eyes bulging,
its stillness heavier than stone.

I held my breath;
fear became a ritual.
Two cockerels marched toward it,
courage without wisdom.
They flared and crowed,
but it did not move.
It was an omen,
and we—
we had become reeds in dry ground,
worshipping each other
as if we were gods.

The Ditty of Topplers

Her passion burned like wood in a hearth,
all heat, no restraint.
He watched her glow
and mistook the flame for love.

Drums rose, flutes joined,
and dancers filled the night.
The air was wine;
the body, a battlefield.
“Love her,” they sang,
“for her hunger is endless.”
But they laughed behind their hands.

Like two men emptying a pit,
one dug, the other carried filth away.
She lived on what others gave,
took a man’s kidney
and offered him silence in return.
Her face, a canvas of deceit,
her eyes, a question she would not answer.

The music swelled again—
and a stranger entered,
radiant, false,
an angel in a counterfeit robe.
They welcomed him.
They were all performers now,
actors in a pageant of deceit.

Her demands became monstrous,
her sweetness a trap.
And when famine came,
the vineyards dried.
The daughters of song
became daughters of dust.
A cottage turned to ruin.
A generation mistook lust for love,
and applause for salvation.

An Effigy of a Goddess

It was late,
the hour when rain clouds
press against the roof of thought.
I lay restless,
turning like a page on fire,
when she appeared—
a vision I could not invite,
nor resist.

She was clothed in white,
stained with blood
that shimmered like confession.
No lightning, no entrance—
only her presence,
cold as a sentence.

She spoke not with words
but with judgment.
She was not flesh,
but memory resurrected.
They once called her a goddess—
protector, warrior, curse.
She came from the field of buried men,
from the soil of unfinished prayers.

She fell upon me with slander and flame.
Though long dead,
she spoke like Abel,
her cry piercing daylight’s heart.
Terror thickened;
I clutched the pillow
as if it were salvation.

Another figure rose behind her,
an idol molded in her image.
She vanished,
commanding the night like a spirit.
I trembled,
tasted fear like iron in my mouth.
The power inside me
wrestled for release.

I called to the Father of spirits—
He who formed her from the womb,
He who forbade her entry among the saints.
But still she sought rebirth,
a fierce resurrection.

So I roared,
a lion reclaiming territory.
Fear broke like a fever.
And I stood,
a river in a desert place,
a shadow of rock
in a weary land.

Obiotika Wilfred Toochukwu

Habitation of Reeds and Rushes