By
Obododimma Oha
Words are born
And words die, crucified head-down
Especially on postcolonial crosses
I am just clueless
Why the magi would not appear
To offer their radical gifts
Are they also clueless?
And where has Clueless gone?
Where, in fact, is rable-rouser buried
After being executed summarily
In the streets?
In fact, where are the bones
Of Clueless, let us ambulance them
To his village? Don't die
Clueless, remain immortal
In my postcolonial dictionary.
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