Rain of Thoughts

Rain of Thoughts: 4 Poems | Jackson Agocha | Nigeria


Apologies to our foremothers,

We have ignored your names for too long till it’s now forgettable.

Forgive us oh foremothers,

We have been ignorant of our dear ancestors, for we know not what we do.

Am bringing you to the fore because you deserve to be made noticeable.

Mother Nature will not forgive us,

Mother tongue will curse us,

Mother Earth will cast us away if we keep ignoring your names like we always do.

We are your descendants,

We are The Evildoers,

We have committed the mother of all crimes by throwing away your name and taking on “His” name,

Even when you did it alone and single, playing both roles on a double.

You carried the burden for nine months while he went around sowing white horses because he could do whatever he wants to.

You are the founding mothers who gave birth to the founding fathers.

At your knees, we crèche and took baby steps before we learnt how to run and chase our dreams,

Even from the cradle to win life’s battles.

You are not just a Goddess you are a God,

You are not just a heroine you are a hero,

You are the lioness who makes the kill to feed the pride but eats only remnants instead of the lion’s share.

You made me and I ought to be called by your name.


Am a man I live and breathe for you.

I may look stronger and over you,

But my strength ends where yours begin.

Figuring you out is a mystery left to be imagined.

Increase, care and nurturing come from you.

Like the earth, you absorb all my excesses.

Struggling with you is a denial of my origin.

The undue conflict between us is the chaos we are becoming.

Harmony between us is the reason why I push through.

You are my mirror, reflecting me like a see-through

Fighting you means fighting the truth.

The world is ours so let’s make it work

You are a Woman and I live and breathe for you.


The day broke, and I broke the shell,

Mother Earth quaked and cracked open her bowel for me to bust forth like lava.

Dripping reddish hot, too hot to be handled except by the cold hands of the ghetto of Mother Africa.

My birth was a miracle,

I was the long-awaited male child that Mama had endured all the ridicule for his arrival.

At last, I came, and with the excitement of my arrival, she wanted to call me Lucky but Papa preferred Jackson cause he was a fan of The Jackson-5 and living the life of a Roller Coaster.

Her breast nourished me as I selfishly sucked her dry so I can grow wings into adulthood and leave this stage of the larva.

Growing up was R.A.T an acronym for Race-Against-Time,

We squeeze to sleep like rats and survive on Bread and beans-cake called Akara.

That is why we can’t be stingy or self-centred because we had to share every piece of bread and every inch of bed space,

While warming each other through the harmattan fever.

Growing up as a timid shy boy with low self-esteem because all we had were worn out and faded Ankara.

Starvation came on the nearest touch but we mastered the tricks and put her poisonous face to rest with the ever-available antidote call Garri, which is flour made from cassava.

Eventually, I had to come out of my shell to play with my fellow hood rats on the street corner.

We were poor and couldn’t afford toys but our spirits were rich so we created our toys with scraps from the mechanic shop around the corner.

Scars on my knees and elbows are still evidence of rough plays we had while imitating Brus Lee and Jackie Chan’s karate moves, those are beautiful memories I will cherish forever.

I remember episodes of coming home late at night after playing under the full moon,

Trying to sneak into the house but is caught in the act by Papa and Mama.

Going to school most time was a drag because our stomach was empty and our school uniforms were stitches of many materials.

But like Lolly Patton, we proudly flaunt our coat of many colours.

Rag-like uniforms result from years of sitting on jagged floors in classrooms where the seats are less than half the population of the pupils.

Overpopulated classrooms where noise making was the order of the day and back sitters like me dread spelling bee so we hide at the back and lip-synch while the smart kids on the front role spell.

Classes were nothing but a bunch of noise echoing from vessels we called teachers, whose words were nothing but palaver.

Coloured teeth from herbal concoctions we took to keep us alive from countless malaria fevers we suffered.

Self-medication made us medical experts, while mummy was our nurse, daddy was our doctor,

Dictating illnesses by just touching our necks to feel our temperature to administer treatments which were mostly herbal.

RIP to all of those taken by the five child killer deceases especially “The Grim Reaper” Malaria.


I am the most beautiful land in the world,

But now am a shadow of myself, like a wealthy but frustrated old man,

I am counting my ordeals in my last hours, on my dying bed,

With tears falling down my chicks as I lament;

“I own the beautiful land called Nigeria and the mass of ingenious people in it.

My heritage and culture are the most beautiful by any standard if we are to measure it.

I own pipelines under the land that brings oil and gas to the lands stretched across,

From my oil fields in the south, I lubricate the East, West and North.

I once barked commands to great empires like Nok, Oyo, Benin, Kwararafa and kenem Borno empires,

Great tales flung far around the world about their civilization.

My children are spread across the globe like subsidiaries of a conglomerate in more countries than anyone can imagine.

I own steel in the North, rubber in the West, oil in the South and coal in the East.

My assets cannot be quantified in monetary values, but say that is the case,

And the word that best describes this act is called corruption,

Which has turned this green and lush garden of mine into the proverbial animal farm,

Where the privileged few amongst my children steal everything well,

Leaving their siblings to be tortured by the Reaper called poverty.

Home is now a shadow of itself, empty like a house without a home.

Money is the root of my misery, death must be better than this life of mine”.

Concluded the old man.

Like the dying old man, our resources seem to be a gift and a curse for my country,

But unlike the anguished old man Nigeria will survive because as a man dies a child is born.

So we are in the process of rebirth,

We are the ones chosen and we will wipe out the dark ages from within and without,

And Nigeria shall be great again.


Keep your sanity because it is your responsibility.

As this crazy world toasts you to and fro and keeps you agitated about the times I urge you to keep your sanity.

Don’t snap or go out of your frame cause that will be your bane and stress to your brain.

Just be like my little nephew who told his friends ‘My daddy will buy me an airplane’.

To him, life is to be enjoyed like a good game,

And even when the airplane never came he was happy without disappointments or shame.

To him, pressure, disappointment, failure or shame are just words subject to the meaning we give them.

Words are nothing but the meanings we give them.

Don’t fall for the pressure of being called names.

Just keep your sanity and stay focused on your aims.

Keep your head free from the pressures of meeting people’s expectations.

The heart of a child is what you need to keep your head above the waters.

Cause after all is said and done your sanity is all that matters.

Jackson Agocha is a graduate of Mass Communication, from Benue State University. An entrepreneur and poet who developed a love for poetry from his undergraduate days. Currently based in Sokoto State, Nigeria. Born and raised in Kaduna, The Crocodile City.

Contact details: 08028536621, 07036191553

Country of origin: Nigeria

Twitter Handle: @Jacksonagocha2

Facebook: jacksonagocha.AG

LinkedIn: www.linkedin.com/in/jackson-agocha-4723a2171

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