3 Old Travel Poems
I should return to writing them
1.
In Dubai
the street still glitters in the celestial whiteness
of dishdashas, as sky scrapes to wild human
whims. at once wonder, at once wayward to
a cynic's gaze
humanity still flocks into eastern sprawl, like
wildebeest. at once a melee, at once a
melange, a rainbow nation of an orient kind
dubai is still a fascinating cosmopolitan tryst,
desert politics romancing global commerce.
at once confounding, at once admirable.
happiness still sells for dirhams because
Arab money responds to the decibels of
luxury. at once too-much, at once Y-O-L-O
here used to be home.
2.
In Ghana
Akwaaba.
Travellers, restive, hurtle around a whirling carousel.
A touring lot and bags soon unite like long-lost twins
Akwaaba, a welcome, a warmth, winks from a sign
Welcome to Ghana, the dazzling star of the Sahara
Hotel pickup.
Fatima, flower-girl cuteness, serves dimpled pleasantries
"I'm here to pick you, Sir. I'll carry your bag from here."
The traveller pauses, contemplates the damning offer -
This Fatima, half imp, could be testing an adichie-chivalry.
Or home-training. "Thanks, but I'd rather help myself."
At work.
Strange bedfellows nestle together in cosy boardrooms.
Indians. Pakistanis. In fraternal offensive against Power-Points
Ghanaians. Nigerians. Wages first, before pointless rice wars.
The traveller peeps from a cubicle, witness to seeming ironies.
+233.
Tonight, the country's dialling code dials mojitos, dials vodkas,
Dials convulsive expatriate dance steps; the sultry vocalist
dials up e.t mensah's spirit via Kuami Eugene, MzVee... as the
teetotaler intoxicates on guitar solos and a genius club name
Leftovers.
Airport commutes are for last-minute thrills, a moment review
of tourist gaffes and lucky trysts, before visiting chic duty stores
to decide the fate of leftover cedis - someone at home will
appreciate these Ghanaian chocolates and snazzy kente bags
3.
Journey
(aboard a Kenyan Airways flight from Lagos to Nairobi)
Castles of frosts saunter like flakes
in a vastness of nothingness
A plane tugs through, edges past airy folds,
amidst muffled cheers of a human lot.
A longing weighs on the restless traveller.
And a conscious indifference to exiting.
These folds are caricatures -
faces and fadings of familiar forms
Thoughts wade through like silent drones, in drones,
as the promise of forever condenses.
Wait, are we landing now?
Journeys are delightful pranks
only Time gets the joke.
So, what does adichie-chivalry mean?