Maureen Amaka Azuike: Varsity Life
Varsity Life
©2010 Maureen Amaka Azuike
Varsity life is a routine, that you start at sixteen, to be at class at eight. But if you are late, You’ll perch on the window-sill From morning till noon. The lectures consists of Geography, Agric, Science and Maths… So very complicated. There is History or Religion, You name it or simply take your pick. French and English exists, Not to mention Sylistics, With their difficult words and jargons. Ever heard of Syntax with its Morphology, and strange methodology? What about Oral Literature, With its array of folktales, and tongue twisters?
You may learn Biology, Physiognomy or is it Physiology? Is it a shame they only teach you the tricks of how your body ticks? The lectures are only for one hour And thank goodness for that! Break is such a short time, If you ever break at all. During that period, Students and lecturers queue up for half-cooked rice with left-over stew. You may wish to check out the popular joint where mountains of ‘poundo’ and ‘Stoneless’ soup are served by the large matron with the heaving bosom. This routine continues for weeks, For months, then the semester ends. But not before the final examination.
Female undergrads, without their male counterparts, shuttle between lecture rooms and the hairy thighs of their masters… Oh don’t worry, They reap all they sow. What about the male undergrads? Could they be buried in Theories and practicals. Certainly not. They are too busy plucking From exposed orchards… ‘Had-I-known is a bitter pill to swallow’.
At the end of the year, Some students go home With shrieks of laughter, And lots of chatter. Others leave school, with mournful faces and worn-out bodies, like puppies that are tired Of romping. But d’you know what I like best about Varsity life? It is the freedom to do Nothing if I so desire!
Chinualumogu
©2010 Maureen Amaka Azuike
Oh! Chinua The revered revolutionary of my time The doyen of lucid literary style The venerated eagle with soaring wing The amazing one whose ‘chi’ is not asleep You, whose ‘chi’ fights your battles You, who clean your hands before a feast with elders.
We were moved by what we saw That day when fate aimed at your plumes When the gods of doom dared to claim you for their sacrifice. To pluck up your spirit…
You resigned yourself to fate A close shave with death it was In that rickety awala awala Their brazenness is nothing new Those dare-devil drivers of the ‘land jet’.
You have not resigned, you have only landed. You are no reluctant hero You have only retired to nurse Your wounds.