It is far too uncommon that a postcolonial poet is able to escape the proliferation of political and African content flooding his or her poetry. I was initially emphatic in my belief that, as much as I appreciate postcolonial literature, there was far too much emphasis on the societal and political state of one’s colonized country; the writing didn’t seem to have real existential leanings where there was an stress on the individuals quest for the meaning of life and the struggle life’s strange tides bring forth.
Before I knew it, I came across a poet from Nigeria, Ebereonwu, whose poetry left me in awe by way of his crazy imagery and outlandish context. I found myself wondering whether his work was a product of psychedelic drugs or psychiatric issues. He tragically died in a car accident but his work shells out a rash and somewhat “fuck you” attitude which mirrors his unique style. When asked why he wears his typical guevera styled beret, he replied: "It's a matter of choice. In a world where people are used to copying what everybody is doing, they are bound to see me as a radical. All the changes in the world are not brought about by people who behave like their grandfathers." What a cool dude eh? A man who never tried to render unceasing ideas and say what’s on his untouchable mind; what other mind could write lines too tart for the tongue: “The Cobra’s venom is my cough syrup” (“Mankind,” The Insomniac Dragon).
The Following is also an excerpt from The Insomniac Dragon
HERE
Your spittle harpooned the shark of bigotry and norm
Your voice unsettled the moon even in its abode up high
In your mortal strides, you caused cherubs to fret and sigh
You’ve gone now leaving behind your prepuce and your venom
THERE
It isn’t the fool anymore, let them know
It’s the wise and strong that treads where angels fear to go
So with your pen, cause ripples over there
Unsleep their slumbering stare
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