Before You Hang Me

Hate or oppress me
Hang or shoot me
Burn or bury me…!

But before this twist
Let me clench my fist
Let me provide a gist:

Let me sing
To the men and their king
A song that like bee sting

Awakes them to the load
Carried by us with a moral code
Reduced like some toad

Cast with a spell
Shut in a well
With no story to tell.

Hearing my song
They shall see what’s wrong;
Take the orders then for me to be wrung.

Shooting, hanging, wringing solve not the problem
But attracts a boo for an anthem
Leaving blood, fire and grief as their emblem.

As of stone they have made their hearts
None will ever to them doff their hats
But all will confirm they replicate rats.

Then and only then
Smolder me, not my pen
With flames before I count ten.

Peacefully, I shall die
Heartily, my spirit will fly
Disgracefully, will the king comply.

I shall be death but not gone.
The People shall have, with the king, done
For prising from them their dawn.

Curled from Barbed Forest

Master or Monster

Transformation is the devil’s act

Transubstantiation a Christian pact

That one did broker with our great nation

And was made master to head the nation

As master, claws he did pop out

Giving the nation to the draught

Like a master throwing his dog a bone

Which draught now hits hard this nation like stone

When we brought him in, we hailed, “Master, Master!”

Now wanting him out, we cry, “Monster, Monster!”

Knowing now what to think

Would you told us one thing:

Beauty, hiding cloak for monsters!

Ugly thoughts to have of masters!

They the devil’s acts condone

Hoping to have pact undone!

Ordering high corruption

They would we have communion

Praying for corruption incorruptible

As if there is nothing inevitable!

Their Heir Not Our Air

Break the broke down with clubs

Guide the poor to the pubs

Leave them no tropical fresh air

Until for him is found an heir

Dancing to the tune of country

Music warming hearts of con tree

Hill Billies blind to virtues

On the path of war, real truce

Holding the bloke out of every club

Keeping him away from every cup

And salvage the country in a mire drowning

Leaving no possibility of running

Spoil sport won’t escape this fate

For others he lay down hate

But the pen above hate flies

Noting the country’s cries

Noting our country’s cries

Pens do more than heave sighs

They prick the country to the pain

The pain she would everything slain

Once up and aware of ill

Unwanted heir’s sent uphill

For freshness to sweep the plain

For all to breathe without strain

Curled from Peace Mongers at War ©2009 Bill F Ndi

Litany of Lamentations

Not just a vicious cycle

I would say a spiral of violence

Not just psychological torture

I would say a nation run by thieves

Not just crushing of youth’s dream

I would say killing of the larvae before they grow

Not just a wall made of gangsters

I would say constructed with their bricks of arrogance

Not just haughtily bawdy

I would say morally uncouth

Not just devilishly cunning

I would say satanically sly

Not only the smell of their shit

I would say the stench of rottenness

Not just looking like political mishmash

I would say political indigestion

Not just misery in squalor

I would say abjection in a quagmire

Not just legalisation of corruption

I would say bastardisation of impurities

Not just condoning crime without punishment

I would say consolidation of their heinousness

Not just a throne and crown in decay

I would say their timeless putridity

Not just a king sowing seeds of discord

But I would say but dances and rhymes with division

Not just clannishly sheepish

I would say gangsterly arrogant

Not just sloppily clumsy

I would say a thousand headed hydra

Not just monstrously ugly

I would say a basking shark

Not just the flames of passionate hate

I would say unpardonable hellish hate

Not just that they can’t change

I would say they’ve made up their minds impervious

Not just they won’t look back

I would say some men can’t just change

Not just trapped in their quick sand

I would say misery, poverty and privation

Not just a gang of petty thieves pushed by hunger

I would say highwaymen robbing for greed

Not just a lazy stupid bunch at the helm

I would say a lousy crazy bunch steering the ship aground

Not just a demagogue thinking he’s a pedagogue

I would say a coward with demagogic delirium

Not just fake politicians and statesmen

I would say convoluted to the marrow bone

Not just their disorderly debauchery

I would say chaotic apocalypse now

Not just driving the nation into her grave

I would say making of every life living hell

Not just through blind and questionable greed

I would say through reckless and unthinkable felony

Not just by burning and burning with fire

I would say burning and burning to ash all hopes

When the gangster in chief has to this listen

I would the world ask him what he has learnt as a lesson.

Curled from Peace Mongers at War ©2009 Bill F Ndi

Les Sieurs et leurs pages

A Bamenda l’armée francophone fit

Couler le sang de braves gens ; en tout ? Six.

Il eut la pluie du multipartisme

Y compris celui du fédéralisme

Que quémandent aujourd’hui, ces marchands

Du tribalisme criant à tout vent

Que ces anglophones sont trop demandeurs

Et cherchent à détrôner leurs supérieurs ;

Aberration qu’ils n’ouïront jamais dire ;

Mais voudront transformer le sang en cire

Pour faire brillanter les souliers du roi

Qui leur a permis de chasser ces proies

Qui se revendiquent un héritage

Colonial qui priverait sieurs de pages.

02/11/2017

Mon Frère et mon Blème

Bras croisés, parlez-vous de nos problèmes :

« Le Problème Anglophone est le problème

De tous les Camerounais », peut-être

Par oubli que nous sommes chefs d’orchestres

Qui entonnons les chants transformateurs

Pour conscientiser les baragouineurs

Qu’êtes-vous et vos multiples disciples

Coupables garants ces rudes périples.

Nous ne sommes pas des faciles-à-bercer

Avec des piètres paroles démodées

Que vous tenez depuis cinquante-cinq ans

Et là, hélas ! Nous ne sommes pas des ânes !

Bien qu’eussions-nous leur calme disposition,

Nous mettons à poil notre vexation.

02/06-07/2017

©2017 Extrait de La Logorrhée du Poète

Preface to French Poetry Collection

Avant Propos

Ce recueil aurait pu être intitulé La croisée des chemins: être Anglophone ou Francophonisé? Mais aux fins de ne pas être réducteur ou encore myope avec un problème d’ordre universel que régional, Bill F. Ndi a choisi d’universaliser ce problème d’Anglophones au Cameroun dont les compatriotes francophones en voudraient faire de la polémique toute en le tribalisant et en le concevant comme le fait le monde occidental pour ce qui est de la contribution de Noirs dans l’histoire de l’humanité. Pour l’occident, le Noir n’a rien apporté comme contribution à l’humanité comme pour le francophone Camerounais, depuis Sardou Daoudou, l’anglophone n’a rien apporté à l’union ou encore l’histoire de l’anglophone au Cameroun ne peut être comprise que dans l’optique de l’unité nationale, c’est-à-dire l’histoire du Cameroun francophone ou encore La République du Cameroun comme le pays fut connu à « l’indépendance ». Pour ce poète, que le francophone au Cameroun soit d’accord ou pas, l’histoire, prise comme témoin, met en exergue ce mariage forcé ou la femme (l’Anglophone) en a marre et voudrait tirer sa révérence alors que le brute de mari, qui ayant passé tout son temps à tyranniser la femme, signe et persiste que l’union est légitime. Ce recueil en français est une invitation au dialogue conciliatoire, dépourvu de toute diabolisation, en dépit de ce que le poète conçoit comme la mauvaise foi de francophone, quel qu’il soit, lorsqu’il traite le cas anglophone à la même échelle que le cas Bamiléké ou encore Fang, Béti, Bulu, etc. il s’agit ici des pleurs en la langue du tyran et ses acolytes pour qu’ils n’aient pas d’excuses pour prétexter de ne pas comprendre « le Biafrais, l’anglo, le Bamenda, ou encore l’ennemi dans la maison… » Ces épithètes sont les plus souvent attribuées aux anglophones du Cameroun.

Les 82 poèmes de ce recueil visent tout tyran comme l’imposture du francophone camerounais qui refuse de regarder ses pairs (les anglophones) en face et d’admettre leur humanité et leur droit de choisir. D’ailleurs, l’un des chanteurs Camerounais les plus engagé et d’illustre mémoire aurait posé une question très simple dans l’un de ses morceaux où il présentait une situation où il se serait entré en relation avec une personne et quand il voudrait s’en séparer, cette dernière ne voulait pas lui laisser le choix de se quitter comme il en avait au départ pour nouer la relation. Il s’agit ici de Lambo Pierre Roger, alias Lapiro de Mbanga. Il chantait : «  na me a be fan am oh baby, if I talk sey a norh want am again, na wetin be the problem? Tell me oh! » Ayant constaté que l’union ne marche pas, comme l’anglophone qui serait à l’origine de l’union avec son frère francophone de la République du Cameroun, Lapiro pose une question de pointe : « si je vous dis que je n’en veux plus maintenant d’où vient le problème ? Dit le moi oh ! » Ce qui est d’autant plus étonnant c’est que le Camerounais francophone à sa place du maître d’esclave reçoit le désir d’autonomie de ces anglophones, les lésés des indépendances, avec le chant de pays uni et indivisible alors que l’histoire en témoigne autrement. Bien plus, il parle de la sécession alors qu’il s’agit simplement de demande d’autonomie. Quel que soit le cas, ce recueil n’est autre qu’un appel au dialogue qui permettrait aux deux frères de bien comprendre le fond des problèmes qui freinent tout progrès et les minent. Ainsi l’un ne se verrait plus octroyé le droit divin de gestion d’un patrimoine fédéral au profit d’un poigné de filous corrompus.

Comme souligné plus haut ce problème qui semble être camerounais prend une tournée universelle lorsque la situation des anglophones au Cameroun miroitent celle de noirs aux États-Unis avec le mouvement contemporain de « Black Lives Matter » ou encore, la vie de noirs compte. Bien que cette thématique se soit abordée par d’autres écrivains anglophones tels Victor Épié Ngome, l’auteur de What God Has Put Asunder, ce recueil évite de s’engager dans un dialogue des sourds avec un oppresseur qui dirait ne rien comprendre en une langue qui n’est pas sienne. Même avec mil ans d’atmosphère envenimée, le dialogue est toujours possible si l’oppresseur accepte de reconnaître l’humanité de l’opprimé. Ce recueil de Bill F. Ndi constitue de résolutions imaginaires des contradictions socio-psychologique ainsi que politico-économique.

Pour finir, écoutez parler chaque mot, chaque vers, et primez la raison à l’émotion bien qu’il vous la faut pour mieux saisir cet objet esthétique dépeignant l’enfer dans lequel vous faites brûler une partie de l’humanité, en l’occurrence les anglophones du Cameroun ou encore les noirs partout ailleurs dans le monde. Sartre n’avait-il pas raison de chercher à savoir pourquoi écrire ? N’est-ce pas disait-il que « chacun a ses raisons : pour celui-ci, l’art est une fuite ; pour celui-là un moyen de conquérir. […] on peut conquérir par les armes. » ? Et n’ayant point écrit pour prendre fuite ni pour conquérir par des armes, ce recueil fait soigneusement usage des mots pour l’image des maux qu’ils sculptent quitte à troubler lecteur. Car le poète qui ne peut ni appeler la laideur par son nom ni l’enjoliver avec la douceur de mots qui frappent, devrait reconsidérer sa vocation poétique. Bref, la mission poétique est d’enlaidir la beauté de l’oppression selon oppresseur. Le poète, Bill F. Ndi, dans ce recueil, l’accomplit avec finesse.

Bonne lecture.

https://www.amazon.com/Bill%20F.%20Ndi/e/B00CCKC1MQ/ref=la_B00CCKC1MQ_pg_2?rh=n%3A283155%2Cp_82%3AB00CCKC1MQ&page=2&sort=author-pages-popularity-rank&ie=UTF8&qid=1485534106

Swiss Cheese

From the River of Prawns to that of blood

And I wonder when the tyrant would stop

His blood bath and forfeit shitting on top

Of olive branch holding patriots in broad

Daylight before taking delight in flight

With the state’s coffers to hide in the Alps

Where cheese meets wine in the mouth and melts down

As our demands are met with a crackdown

Which we are told is stroking itchy scalps

To harden the heart of the excellent

Thief in chief who raids and kills innocence

And turns around to decree sweet nonsense

With chants of his acts being a repellent

Which wrong we must, by right, fight to right.

11-30—12-01/2016

New Collection: Worth Their Weight in Thorns

http://linusbooks.com/?wpsc-product=worth-their-weight-in-thorns

About the book

This poetry collection is yet another confirmation that Bill F. Ndi is a major contributor to Anglophone-Cameroon literature. He is a poet, with conviction, who refuses to let the Sun set on the Anglophone-Cameroon Literature. In this volume his cry resounds beyond the bounds of his thorny native Cameroons. He is not repelled by the thorny nature of his world to create a parallel universe smoothened by careful and skillful use of language. B.F. Ndi’s smooth verse is set against a rhythmic backdrop and its lines would wake up any sleeper. It is with such that the poems address human concerns and predicaments with both verve and fervor that challenge and refresh the reader/listener at the pronouncement of every word. Built around the pervasive imagery of thorns, this collection is poignant and effective from beginning to end.

We Shan’t Perch

kill peace slyly
her music has just
far from dust
been really
soft so
and called for no
knell, bell, snell, cell, gel,
smell, yell, spell, girl, fell…
shot hunting change for all
but stood tall,
treating waste matter
she is a master
no mistress
would with mess
So she won’t look
nor utter a yelp at the fluke
blinking bs
on whom should be unlocked swarms of bees
to buzz change with e in their ears
and hoping one of their ears hears
not the soft music
but the pain with which all is sick
of them dreaming in silence we die
round the clock we shall tell them they lie
for we are birds from hunters flying
if power-tricksters think themselves hunters shooting without missing
we shan’t perch
as we for peace search.

In response to Trevor Disposable world

Grumpy old man stage
I young'ns more harshly judge
than I would have wanted
to be at that age.
But the values
of insidious older manipulators
blithely wrecking cultures
laying waste the world
do really frighten me.
Someone needs to tell them
- no, they know -
the planet is a not-for-profit concern
non-returnable, no exchange.

© Phil Mahnken 21 March 2008

Scavengers

You, you, you, and you see them as filthy filth
No doubt they live off the filth
But these scavengers need be treated with love
Not because they’re stronger than the dove.

You, you, you, and you may not see the reason
Yet, in this nation lions hang on trees for “treason”.

And Vultures flap their wings and send through the air
Fragrances and freshness all would wear and bear;
And when from their thrones lions with joy
Accomplish their favorite ploy
Albeit sick and unfit to rule
In the game they fix the rule;
Slitting the throat of a prey
And it is then that vultures prey
Cleaning the gory scenes of our pavement,
Driving the quest for anything more useful to environment;
Some big fat cat do too no doubt
With Blake’s, my family totem, making me proud
But not in seeing them strife on the living,
Not even when for them this rhymes with surviving.

Thorns of Love

 

At the campaign we only saw a picture

We’d better wait him in to see the feature

His picture was spotless and stainless

So we hopped and danced for his holiness

 

Falling in love blinds to the fact

Tiny little hair can kill the pact

When it’s grown big pulling its weight like thorn

In the flesh of love heavier than a ton

 

Copy such love not, keep eyes wide open

Keeping away all foul fowls in pen

Conditions by the tons

For true love make their thorns

 

At close range the hairy face freckles show

Stainlessness and spotlessness were pre-show

Forced unto us for love of near reality

 

                  When for real all other is indeed reality




              Curled from Sing Love 101

Little Sacred Song (LSS LXXV)

LSS LXXV

Call Him fake! That bait I would not take!

Make your peace by craving all that’s fake

And to your face I will sing to you

Without fear you are a shame times two

For you trample underfoot His Name

Free of stain with thoughts and claims of fame

And knowing he does not His work do

For such as to His faith He is True

As I hold fast to my refusal

Of mud slings at my divine royal

From you or any who with putrid

Slurs try to drag down the slums and rid

My world of light shining from His Heart

To guide my steps for His my shepherd.

Curled from Bill F. Ndi ©2013 Little Sacred Songs 

Anthem for Essingang

O, macaroon covered with poor chicks' feathers

Go sit down and pride yourself in thievery

Like the slums your disgraceful flag shall fly

With your havoc to your name ever true

My father's house that once all tongue could tell

Has now become a house of thieves

So the rest of the world can see

The emblem of the tears of our people





Clan of mbokos, clan of bandits

With death and sadness in our store

Thine be disgrace, thine be great shame

And repudiation for evermore....


Curled from, Bleeding Red: Cameroon in Black and White

My New Baby & Preface by Pr. Ken Wilburn!

Preface by Dr. Kenneth Wilburn, Department of History, East Carolina University

The authors of this provocative book explore distinctions of individual and group belonging, as well as manifestations of not belonging. Written for advanced undergraduates, graduate students, faculty, and those seeking knowledge about the complexity of identity, Fears, Doubts and Joys of not Belonging examines variations of imposed and self-imposed alienation. Ndi, Ankumah, and Fishkin explore the rich historiography of estrangement in fiction and non-fiction to demonstrate the universality, timelessness, and varieties of alienation. For example, Muslim leaders like Nana Asma’u of the Sokoto Caliphate disseminated educational poems of inclusiveness to the Africans of Gobir alienated by conquest. In contrast, Europeans who organized the Atlantic slave trade sought power and material wealth through mechanisms of intimidation and force that resulted in widespread hopelessness and exclusion. Both groups were victims of alienation, but those of the caliphate were invited in language they understood to participate inside the new society; those who survived the Middle Passage were addressed in languages they did not understand, transformed into chattel, and kept outside settler societies.

Thus, whether inclusive or exclusive in nature, alienation can be imposed, as heretics have often been painfully reminded by the orthodox. Yet alienation can also be willful, as Christian and Sufi ascetics have frequently demonstrated. In this book’s ten chapters, the authors seek balance in our understanding of estrangement by asserting that joy can also come out of willful alienation. From that half-filled glass of life’s serendipity one can often drink just as deeply of joy as one can of despair. This is what Steve Biko meant when he wrote about Black Consciousness, about discovering joy in one’s identity. Alienation can be transformed from a lock into a key to open the collective Global African in us all. Fears, Doubts and Joys of not Belongingmoves forward that recent scientific discovery.

Madiba

Madiba

We are gathering again in Soweto

Soweto where Biko lives

‘cause only silt has flowed our away

‘cause babies didn’t die to live in shanties

the gold and diamonds they have stashed

while the black betty bourgeois drive audis

on dust filled roads that pollute our hopes and dreams.

Madiba

We are gathering again in Sharpesville

‘cause the dogs are in the suites

sipping   moet and chandon

while our passes and blood

are but memories in their sordid minds

while our mothers’ lamentations  lit rooms perfumed with cigars

where evil eyes lust for flesh

where evil eyes undress the undressed bodies

where dark secrets are whispered of money stashed.

Madiba

We are gathering again on Robben Island

‘cause the monsters have turned the guns on the people

‘cause the rainbow is only an lllusion

an illusion for two dollars a pay day

an illusion for putrid water and shanties for homes.

Madiba

we are gathering again in Johannesburg

‘cause Mariam Makeba is wailing

‘cause Hugh Masekela  is trumpeting

‘cause Johnathan Butler is humming

‘cause Ladysmith Black Mambazo is howling

They are wailing, trumpeting, humming, and howling a new song

A new song  of freedom

A new song of liberation

A new song of emancipation

A new song of transformation.

Madiba

We are gathering again

All over Azania

The land where we want to roam free

The land where we want to nurture the baobab tree

‘cause ‘Umkhonto we Sizwe” is broken

‘cause “Umkhonto we Sizwe” is broken.

 Godfrey Cymande

© 12/11/2013

For Red Hand Entertainment