Ethnodata Dripped in African ontology, Simmering in Epistemological ‘jollof ‘
Ethnodata Dripped in African ontology, Simmering in Epistemological ‘jollof ‘
I present a series of poems as data artefacts of myself growing up in a contemporary African society. It follows a natural, ethnomethodological, and constructionist impulse that focuses on the everyday lived experience. Unfolding within circumstantial situational social interactions in a postcolonial space, it brings together an acute awareness of the myriad layers of the educational, cultural, and socio-economic context that condition the production of the stories.
A Country’s Cry
A land of golden promise untold,
Yet draped in despair, so bitter, so cold.
Leaders with wisdom wrapped in Western guise,
Craft excuses as their people’s hope dies.
Choking on woes of economic despair,
Transportation stalled, education laid bare.
Once proud voices, vibrant and free,
Now whisper in shadows of lost unity.
Nepotism crowns itself, a cruel king,
Where welfare’s a dream, a hollow thing.
Neglect and greed carve sorrow’s domain,
Thousands left to endure the unyielding pain.
At dawn, a prayer rises soft and slight,
A whisper for wisdom to pierce the night.
Dreams of knowledge, of brighter days ahead,
A flicker of hope where despair has tread.
Institutions crumble, corruption takes root,
Deep in the soil where justice bears no fruit.
Yet hearts persist, seeking kindness, a spark,
Clinging to miracles in a world so dark.
Religion offers a tender embrace,
But tradition, scattered, finds no steady place.
A supreme deity holds their gaze high,
While lesser spirits linger, unseen, nearby.
A nation trembling on the edge of change,
Yearning for culture, politics rearranged.
May courage ignite, and paths be restored,
Opening the gates to futures adored.
Forevermore, may the cry of this land
Echo with hope, as we rise, hand in hand.
A Linen Brown Shirt and Black Trousers
My dear family,
As I sway on this tro-tro’s seat,
Memories flood like a restless tide—
Fragments of my past unearth themselves,
Soft, sharp, tender, and wide.
The preacher’s voice drones,
Peddling salvation in oils and herbs,
But it’s my past, not his promises,
That tangles my thoughts in vivid curves.
A song hums through static air—
R2Bees, my fifteen-year-old anthem,
When Junior High results became my horizon,
A future still shrouded, raw and phantom.
I see the rush, the chaos, the sweat,
The cyber café, our gateway to dreams.
Mum’s joy a light too bright to contain,
And my sister’s teasing, as sharp as it seems.
I see my father—proud, steady, strong—
In his linen brown shirt, black trousers clean,
Handing me that slip of destiny,
His love unspoken, yet fiercely seen.
But oh, what weight the paper bore,
What stories it told beyond the grades.
Education wasn’t just a classroom,
It was battles fought in hope’s charades.
A family’s sacrifice, the quiet strain,
Mum’s worn hands and late-night sighs,
My sister’s second-hand dreams deferred,
And Dad’s stoic gaze through hungry skies.
This tro-tro carries more than me—
It bears the echoes of all we’ve done.
The love that built the road beneath,
The tears that fell when the fight was won.
So thank you, my dear family,
For holding me through fear and fire.
I carry you in every breath I take,
Your faith, my compass, my eternal choir.
And yet, as I ride this crowded trail,
I feel the ache of the sacrifices made.
The joy is deep, the sorrow deeper,
For paths paved with love, and dreams delayed.
But I’ll carry your light, I’ll honour your fight,
Through futures uncharted and nights unknown.
Your love is my anchor, my quiet strength—
In the storm of life, I’ll never stand alone.
My dear family, this tro-tro moves,
But you are the journey I hold inside.
Through every dark turn and fleeting light,
You are the reason I stride.
The Education of the Artist
In halls of learning, I walked alone,
Desire flickering like a fragile flame.
The world stared with questioning eyes,
Unspoken doubts whispering my name.
Art was not just lines and form,
But a mirror, cracked, yet clear—
A desperate reach to understand
A world both distant and near.
In high school’s shadowed corridors,
I drew not just to create, but to feel.
To find myself in fleeting strokes,
To make the intangible real.
Yet the weight of loneliness lingered,
As passion met walls of silent doubt.
Each stroke of colour, each line of hope,
Became a cry the world shut out.
Art became my language, my plea,
A way to see what others dismissed—
Beauty in the broken, light in despair,
In the overlooked, I persist.
But art is more than beauty’s face,
It’s the echo of choices, the toll of time.
It questions what we blindly follow,
It builds a truth both harsh and sublime.
Still, loneliness clings like a second skin,
In every triumph, a quiet ache.
To see the world through art’s lens
Is to carry every joy and every heartbreak.
Now, as graduation draws its veil,
The journey stretches, a winding shore.
I am free, but freedom feels cold—
A solitary path, yet I long for more.
To question, to challenge, to see anew,
To walk where others dare not tread.
But in the quiet of this artist’s heart,
A yearning lingers, heavy as lead.
I carry the weight of every line,
Each brushstroke a testament to pain.
Yet in the darkness, a spark still flickers,
A stubborn hope that remains.
For art, in its loneliness, is not just mine—
It’s a world waiting to be unveiled.
Through tears, through silence, I will create,
Even as my heart is assailed.
The education of the artist is this:
To love, to lose, to see, to feel.
To bear the burden of beauty and sorrow,
And paint a truth no world can steal.
The Emotive Evolution
In the beginning, at six years old,
Life brimmed with stories yet untold.
Born to a home of strength and grace,
Where dreams found roots, a loving embrace.
With crayons bright, I painted skies,
In colouring books, where wonder lies.
On a blackboard, I wrote my name,
A small spark lit, an eternal flame.
Class one came with a world anew,
Dad’s steady hand saw me through.
Homework done, lessons clear,
His love my guide, my heart sincere.
In primary school, my sketches grew,
Illustrating the world as I saw it, too.
The classroom illustrator, a creator bold,
Each line a story waiting to be told.
Books became my secret friend,
Sister’s texts I’d read, no end.
Every word a door unlocked,
Every page, my passions stocked.
To boarding school, I made my way,
Adolescence blooming, come what may.
Struggles met, but art stayed true,
A constant joy, my soul’s breakthrough.
Vocational classes felt out of place,
But the arts welcomed me with grace.
Graphic design, a canvas wide,
A colonial past, yet a creative tide.
And through it all, hip-hop played,
A beat that freed, a path that stayed.
With every rhythm, my mind took flight,
Art and music, my boundless delight.
The journey continues, bright and clear,
A passion for art I’ll always revere.
With joy and energy, I’ll create,
A life of bliss, my chosen fate.