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On his gravestone you’ll meet:
“A charioteer of ill-fated grave-diggers.
Onwuegbulem- man of grief, tough to beat.
A rich clown, but king of beggars.”

He led an orchestra of mourners
who drenched in the tears of the bereaved,
Hummed dirges around street corners,
Praying for a soul to be received.
Vanity- never his culture.
He’d outgrown sorrow as second nature.

Just when death saluted his courage.
Before the morning light shone upon his fate,
Came the thickest darkness of his age,
With the seven-horned beast pulling down his gate.

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If I were not human, I would be a book!

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