Two poems by Nick Makoha
Codex 3
We were thirty. Another day was ending
as a mosquito landed at the edge of my hand.
You ordered two beers, to pour ourselves into,
at the airport bar. Each sip a minute of absence
as the bird trapped in the atrium flew in the
direction of our gate. Flight delayed, watching
the metal wing of a plane waiting for us like a
getaway car. The night at the end of the runway
trembled. Like the raven, I wish we could climb
up out of these clouds to where the sky was
drifting across the border beyond a mountain’s
fist, ushered from one life through to another
with only our duffle bags and what they could
hold of this city. Clouds keep no record of cities
they only form shadows above them. As the
summer lengthened and the night became a
darkened room a bit of me watched the clouds
making and unmaking themselves. The runway
became a tunnel of changing light. Fireflies
whispered in the grass. At the gate, our faces
became a document as an unnamed person
stamped our visa for departure.
At the gate, our faces became a document as an
unnamed person stamped our visa for
departure. Fireflies whispered in the grass. The
runway became a tunnel of changing light. As
the summer lengthened and the night became a
darkened room a bit of me watched the clouds
making and unmaking themselves. Clouds keep
no record of cities, they only form shadows
above them. Like the raven, I wish we could
climb up out of these clouds to where the sky
was drifting across the border beyond a
mountain’s fist, ushered from one life through to
another with only our duffle bags and what they
could hold of this city. The night at the end of
the runway trembled. Flight delayed, watching
the metal wing of a plane waiting for us like a
getaway car. Each sip a minute of absence as
the bird trapped in the atrium flew in the
direction of our gate. You ordered two beers, to
pour ourselves into, at the airport bar. We were
thirty. Another day was ending as a mosquito
landed at the edge of my hand.
Codex 12
To enter a desert is to enter a sea. Reader, when I was king, there was no face of man I could not carry. As your sovereign, the kingdom was my chorus. I did not fear the night and its terror. I lived as a kite above men. Dressed my subjects in Persian silk and brocade. I adorned their staffs with gold from Bure. Gold was my true advantage binding the serpent of one’s will to the dragon of one’s spirit. When I was king, my beloved followed as if I were another road, a way to heaven. She covered my hands in dust. The whites of her eyes never left me. When I was the wick, she was the flame. When I was the scale, she was the balance. You were my light in this world. Were we not better than Thebes and its valley of kings, where the Nile’s water surrounded us? Where we lived as pilgrims in a town void of walls and solid buildings. When I was king, in the month of Rajab the Amir escorted me on horseback to Cairo. Did we not lavish them with rare confection? Did we not treat them with difference? In the Souks what quarrel did we have with shadows and custom? In the parlours and the street corners, what did we not purchase from the vendors? Gold had no equal. When it was spent, we continued to Mecca. A flock of birds followed our trail as well as bandits. They left me with nothing but my people. But it was you Creator who brought me to silence at Mount Arafat. Not thirst or hunger. You were the column of smoke. The light on my crooked path. Now that you have found me don’t leave me to this earth? I have no need of it. Enough!
Nick Makoha is the founder of The Obsidian Foundation. In 2017, Nick’s debut collection, Kingdom of Gravity, was shortlisted for the Felix Dennis Prize for Best First Collection and was one of the Guardian’s best books of the year. Nick is a Cave Canem Graduate Fellow and The Complete Works alumnus. He won the 2015 Brunel International African Poetry Prize and the 2016 Toi Derricotte & Cornelius Eady Prize for his pamphlet Resurrection Man. His poems have appeared in the Cambridge Review, the New York Times, Poetry Review, The Rialto, Poetry London, TriQuarterly Review, Boston Review, Callaloo and Wasafiri. He is a Trustee for the Arvon Foundation and the Ministry of Stories, and a member of the Malika’s Poetry Kitchen collective. nickmakoha.com