Title: Gardens in the graveyard
Author: Joseph Mtemdoo Gbagyo
Genre: Poetry
Publisher: Chapuga Publishers, Makurdi
Reviewer: Ofonime Inyang
The Poems
All the poems in this collection speak powerfully to the moment. These are lines not honed out of only the depth of scented wisdom but also of deep seated pain produced by years of battard existence. The lines are fresh and full. Like famished words on sound trail, the echoes of reasoned thought meets with deliberate action anchored on bold steps. In Unyielded Justice for instance, we come face to face with a poet-persona fed up with the rustic undoing of the national mantra. For where justice is considered the apotheosis of a common good, in this clime, justice takes wings and eludes the common good and tramples on common sense. So we now hustle for remnants of an unseen reality. How do you talk of justice in the face of injustice? Where is justice in the absence of just judges? We hear this poet-persona adumberates:
Unyielding quest for justice. So I ponder on this when we have lost decency, And have taken to mediocrity. Integrity is lip-serviced.
Justice for us is a barren ground because “we have lost decency” and have “taken to mediocrity.” So the quest for justice here becomes an eternal quest without end. Our true sense of direction appears to be enshrined in an empty quest because there is no hope of attaining justice. In a land where “integrity is lip-serviced”, the obvious reality is a persistent conundrum of corruption and misgovernance the mould of what Mark Stiglits describes as “the tectonic push of illogicality and irredeemable systemic failure.” Nothing describes the Nigerian reality better than this. Justice in the country is a factor of how much you have and who calls the shots. In election matters, justice takes the form of political affiliation and the person at the position of power. You lose only because you didn’t belong and sometimes you are guilty and incarcerated because of where you belong. The poem couldn’t have been more catalytic in its nuanced capture of the troubling manifestation of injustice as justice in our society.
The poet’s relentless pursuit of justice can be likened to an ageless search for meaning where none exists. For what we encounter in Unyielded Justice is amplified in A Step to the Grave and Still in Sambisa, two poems that herald the disturbing localisation of hideous criminality clothed in barefaced and banal religiosity. In A Step to the Grave, the ominous saturation of darkness over the national landscape mythisises the grave as the new quarter of livelihood. Whereas the grave should speak of what pertains to death and morbidity, the poet reconfigures the grave as our national playground. The grave is where reality is found and the metres of life are determined. Echoing this sentiment, the poet-persona muses about the futility of mortality and advances the crucible of regenerative existence. The existential mathematics that ensues suffices out of the absence of life and hope in the land. This peril of lifelessness founded on poor governance produces in the citizenry a morbid perspective instead of a living reality built around our national hope and pursuit of happiness. So what we do is engaging in a new type of mathematics, counting our days because there is nothing to live for.
Read Also: Girls….Don’t let the devil stop you in 2024!
We count the days we live, I count the day I was born too. We count our victories I measure mine too.
The little “victories” that we enjoy pale into insignificance as the poet points to another dimension of existence where “movement” that should signal progress rather leads to the grave. The intertwining metaphorisation of movement to the doldrums of immortality speaks to the endless struggles in the land. Therefore, As we move, as I move. Is a forward step; yet is a Step forward to the grave is it a step to your grave? It is a step to my graveyard too.
Nothing leaves us with an enthralling shock like knowing that we live with more consciousness of death and the grave than life and the promises of our national ethos. This benumbing sense of our existence is given stronger portrayal in the poem Still in Sambisa Forest. The image of Sambisa as the centre of fenal brigandage and banditry is already established in the national consciousness. The poet uses Sambisa to draw our attention to the many lives lost to the so called bandits, herdsmen and militants who swing in and out of our national borders to trouble the very soul of our collective peace. Using an allegorical reference, the poet inundates us with the patterns and echoes of a forest popularised by lawless brigands and agents of destruction. In a petulant but firm tone, the poet-persona, imagines and captures the daily reality of life in Sambisa: When Sambisa was combed. Yet no sight of the teens of visions Making Malala and Mitchel to Cry, weep and sob We all lamented when we see Obby Crusade for your release. Yet your abductors kept us groping in the dark. We are ashamed to say We have failed.But our care and love We will never withdraw.Gallant but failed troops return From Sambisa and Baga Yet none of you profiled amongst the freed. Another bad news of your whereabouts. Oh! Oh! Is the world of my country and yours? When the defenceless can never be defended. The expert politicians only listens To political drums and enjoys Drama series from their sycophants and collaborators. For large budgets for themselves to share. To my sisters and mothers trapped in Sambisa I can imagine and smell your stenches Of the horror of your daily confrontations. The tragedies of death from daily gunshots.
From this portrayal of life in Sambisa, we are assailed with the ruthless mess of man’s inhumanity and utter loss of the milk of human kindness. We are brought the pictures of “teens”, local and international activists who “cry, weep and sop” daily because of what Sambisa Forest occupants have done to the future of the land. Once again, we are staring at “The tragedies of death from daily gunshots” and the horrors of daily confrontations with daredevil agents of death and destruction. We see all segments of society failing to secure the future of our young ones.
The military tagged as “gallant but failed troup” goes to Samhisa and comes back with a swan song of defeat and helplessness in the face of superior fire power while the top brass smile in new mansions in Europe and the Middle East. The political actors create new roles out of the misery of the masses and corner “large budgets for themselves.” All of these go on to signify the extent of systemic failure within the borders of our nation.
Joseph Gbagyo’s poetry does not shy away from addressing these issues in a voice that is bold, tough and unmistakable. He brings lethal commitment, verve and panache to his writing duty and saddles himself with the responsibility of drawing our attention to the missing links in our political experience. His poems also resonate a Pan African ethos that connects the greatness of Africa to her ability to harness her cultures and youth to build the continent of tomorrow. In Jubilate Africa and The Embittered Soul of the Blackman, he builds an altar of hope and advocates for the need to rethink our past and our future as a continent.
We need to excavate and rewrite our history the troubled sloppy mother continent No doubt fought for the overall freedom, to liberate her races from embittered pains.
This is a song of hope, a ray of sunlight against the backdrop of the pain of the past and healing for a “Bleeding Nation” as he aptly captured our national conditioning.
As I noted earlier, an encounter with Joseph Gbagyo’s poetry takes you through a rolling mill of tales that touches all facets of the human experience. He sings about love in A Song to My Love, A Letter to My Love, Letter to My Unmarried Wife and In Praise of an African Lady and regales us with mixed impulses of the divine in Couples Paradise and If I Can See God. Rooted in Gbayean poetic afflatus is that ominous search for meaning in a society derobed of its gowns and glory. In A Cry in the Night, Years of Wondering, A Toddler at Fifty, What is Death?, Fangs of Terror, We Live But Never See, Somebody to “Execute” Justice, Crazy Superior Men, They Too shall Face Death and the title poem Gardens in the Grave, the raw tangles of Joseph Gbagyo’s poetic impetus and the tumultuous outburst of his personal anger juxtaposes in a torrential raindrops of poetry of action and commitment. For in his poems, he speaks truth to power and powers his truth as music to the heart of the people. This activist-poet is uncompromising and focused and generates poetry that eases the pains as it reminds you of them. He writes out of his heart and blends that open heart into revolutionary lines.
My conclusion is that a run through the poetry of Joseph Gbagyo is a worthy journey into the heart of our situation. His maiden poetry collection as I further noted is a vibrant landscape of musings on justice, injustice, poor governance, hypocrisy, life, mortality, love and other topical issues of human concern. It’s a basket of different moods and feelings, sometimes bold and courageous and at other times feline and romantic. The insipid rays of a poet persona intent on righting the wrongs of a misgoverned entity and a heart calling for racial justice and equality mixes in the assent of a thunderous poetic voice coming to terms with the many transitions in life. At best, this is a work born out of conviction as well as a timely message to a nation and continent already entranced by many dark chapters. I congratulate this poet for staying focused and registering honesty in his voice and sustaining the musical thread of the collection with unmatched lyricism and topicality.
Outside of some of the minor blemishes which are trusted to be corrected in future impressions, I wholeheartedly recommend this poetry anthology to the literary community, schools and general readership. Let me also trust that, Joseph Gbagyo will remain true to his calling of speaking truth boldly to power by becoming a bold exemplar of the truth and principles espoused in his poetry.