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!


©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.
[click to view introduction]