Deep poetry, suspenseful narration. Epic and tastefully spiced with pure nudity of African metaphors.
Listen to nyansh by Jim Adie, and artwork by SuperConcep. you will never see the nyansh the same way again.
Come and stand where my leg is
They look like two slices of the moon hanging on agbalumo tree.
If you squat behind and bend your neck as if to draw water from the well,
You will swear you saw black magic
– Two water pots tied loosely with waist beads.
I cannot close my mouth to save my life
If this nyash was before my eyes.
And if this thing I see is a life-costly secret I’m dying to leak it.
If this history was what sank my fathers
tonight I shall repeat it.
Tell me what manner of man will hear of war coming and delay foreplay
Will he not swing his sword into the battlefield,
bury his head between these two thighs?
This land where men of honour shed blood and sweat
This town flowing with milk and honey.
She says death in his her tight
I say woe unto Cowards wandering loose
There’s so much ignorance outskirt.
Send words to my mother at abuochiche
Tell her I am far from home
And there is no need to waste the kerosene in her atukpa
Inform my village people, that child once shy to pluck the flowers from waterleaves has tasted the underpot of editan.
From a calabar woman.
Tell them she cooks with fire not smoke.
her palm oil doesn’t sleep
And she grinds like tartarshi!
When I grab my hand around your waistline everything I feel is art
But then again I’m clueless what genre your nyash is
Maybe in my hand an anthology of black poems made flesh
Maybe an artifact to exalt negritude
Maybe a plain black canvas set on a donkey
Maybe my stroking today will make history
Maybe one half of this nyash is earth covering gold coast
Maybe the other, a sculpture of the wind.
Your buttock line is the African map torn in two pieces
your stretchmarks, tracks connecting Negros to their roots
Maybe a man who has come home before does not ask too many questions. He’ll come
And when I return
I’d call to you by your secret name from a distance
Spreading the syllables wide apart
Gripping the letters at both foot
Brushing my tongue on the sweet-wet center intonation
Pardon my hard diction
We men have this p. Factor when our tongue is in.
And when I’m done you’d look me in the eyes and say
I am not the man you use to know
And I’d pull you an inch deeper
Until I correct your knowledge of me.
And you will hear your own my mouth call a black man god.