J.J. Campbell (1976 - ?) is old enough to know where the bodies are buried. He's been widely published over the last 25 years, most recently at Winedrunk Sidewalk: Shipwrecked in Trumpland, The Beatnik Cowboy, Terror House Magazine, Horror Sleaze Trash and Cajun Mutt Press. You can find him most days on his mildly entertaining blog, evil delights. (https://evildelights.blogspot.com)
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big city
i have lived
in small towns
my entire life
a big city
will probably
swallow me
alive
one day i hope
to know for sure
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heartbreak written all over it
she had the kind
of smile that had
heartbreak written
all over it
i remember the
first time she
kissed me
i promised her
the world
she broke up
with me the
second she
realized i
couldn't
afford it
i thanked her
on her way
out the door
i was in over
my head once
again
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blood on the walls
she liked the taste of bourbon
and preferred songs about
murder from back in the fifties
she made you laugh every night
she drank you under the table
used to ask you if you thought
she was still the most beautiful
woman this side of the mississippi
you would always lie and say yes
she would smile and know you
had moved on years ago
eventually, you found her
one evening in the bathroom
asleep in the tub
blood on the walls
giving you the chance to
live out your dreams
you kissed her on the cheek
and reminded her that's not
how destiny works
something from kentucky
with a little ice she moaned
from the bathroom
just another night being poor
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while approaching climax
hello darkness
the only friend
a lonely boy
ever needs
where the
imagination
tries to choke
itself to death
each night
while
approaching
climax
she had the eyes
of a broken soul
collecting names
for her revenge
he was only
hoping to be
the latest
victim
soon, glasses
of wine will
turn to bottles
and that lonely
boy will get
another chance
to be famous
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a different class of humans
my father never loved me
my mother only does so
out of guilt
my sister is in a different
class of humans and rarely
gives me a passing thought
i've heard voices since
i was a child
done drugs since i was
a teen
and knew the taste of
my favorite liquor before
the age of ten
smart enough to graduate
high school with honors
and never take a fucking
book home for four years
college wasn't an option
since my father gambled
away all that money
i went to a factory where
all us misguided genius
stupid fucks are supposed
to end up
seven years later, a few
back injuries, a couple
abortions and two painful
car accidents i should have
died in
i sat on the porch of eighty
acres and knew reality was
going to fucking win again
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Our hands wriggle
in a crazed dance with fate
while our fathers' belly's past gluttony
hisses at misfortune's coming diarrhea.
At his table, they dined desperately,
–Jahanaam's horned King
with spoons shorter
than lashes in the eyes of babies.
Whoring their rotting teeth
into shiny soft fruits
and leaving on our buds,
tastes, cringing and sour.
Under the billowing tree,
towering over their graves,
We'll question what sins
our heads have against God
to have subjected us
to this cruelly father-made fate.
If only they could hear our whispering,
if only they could hear us pray.
‘’If you’re not a part of my struggle, you can’t be a part
of my success’’
…..Anonymous
‘’Friend, I wish you the very best in your chosen writing
endeavor. I’ll give out my very best to support you whenever you need me’’
August 15, 2006
‘’Congrats! It’s a great feat establishing a career in
writing. I’m with you all the way. All the very best!’’
October
3, 2006
February 8, 2008: ‘’Give me some time to rebrand and
re-package my TV program. When completed, I’ll formally invite you on air for
an interview. Be rest assured and be patient’’
Six months and a day later…
August 9, 2008 (A Phone call): ‘’Hello Ben, I know you’ve
been patient with me all the while. Following me up through regular phone calls
to ascertain the progress being made and all of that… However, I regret to
inform you that I won’t be able to invite, as promised earlier. I strongly
advise you seek another platform to showcase your literary works. Thanks for
contacting me, Nigeria’s most revered media personality’’
The first two statements (the ones of August 15 and October
3, 200) were made by friends who were, in my thought, ‘’able to see me through
my writing journey’’. In fact, back in school, my colleagues were convinced the
friends I had would be instrumental to my being successful in future as an
author. I could remember my room-mate say to me: ‘’It’s no doubt that the
age-long saying ‘show me your friend and I’ll tell you who you are and if you
want to know the you now and then you, in the next five years,
status-wise, two things will have to determine that: the company you keep and the books you’ve read.’
Ben, I know you’ve read quite a number of books. And it’s no surprise you’re
embarking on a writing expedition. Of course, you are flanked by friends who
are seen as being resourceful and will be helpful to you, now and in the
future. From me to you, I wish you all the best!’’
One would think I will be supported, considering how
assuring their commitments were. They sounded convincing. But I was in for a
shocker!
Just Read!
About two years later…
August 18, 2008
I recorded a phone conversation (text message chat) between
the friend whose statement was made on August 15, 2006 and me.
Me: It’s really been a while, friend. So sorry I’ve not been
keeping in touch for ages! How are you doing?
Friend: Yea. I’m good. You know, twenty friends can’t be in
a place for twenty years. We’ve been through school together and we just have
to part ways at some point…which we had done. This is almost two years since we
finished school. It’s really been a while, I must agree. How about your writing?
Me: Still on it. Currently trying to get it across to
publishers in Lagos and Oyo states… It’s been, so far, a ‘no-no’. I’m not
giving up, nonetheless.
Friend: That’s the spirit! I know you for that. You have the
never-say-die attitude to life.
Me: Thanks man. What’s up with you now?
Friend: Through my father’s connections in society, I
secured on On-air personality job at 92.79FM* in Lagos. I’ve been very busy
working with (or should I say for?) this station for about a year now.
Me: Interesting! Will be great if you can invite me for a
possible interview…
Friend: Tell me, how many works have you written?
Me: Ten. But still on a look-out for a publisher who will
take on the projects
Friend: I’ll see what I can do. But remember it’s just a
year is started working with this radio station. But we could still keep in
touch with each other over the phone. Let’s keep tabs on each other.
Me: I’ll be waiting. I trust you’ll be instrumental to my
success in a not-too-distant future.
Friend: Thanks for believing in me. Will catch up with you
later. So, long friend!
Me: Bye for now!
The text messaging ends
For the next six months, I kept calling and texting him on
phone. But neither my calls nor texts were returned or replied to. About the
same period, I attempted to contact the second person (the one who made the
statement on October 3, 2006). Except for the message (as read below), he
never, even till this day, replied or returned my calls or text messages. I
didn’t even hear from you via social media (Facebook and Twitter)
‘’My father owns a publishing firm. I told him about you.
Just give him time. He’ll get back to you. I forwarded your contacts to him.
Don’t worry. I’ll update you from time to time.’’
From 2006 and 2009, I struggled in my writing journey, all
on my own (in Nigeria, such a state is depicted by the acrostic O.Y.O, which
stands for On Your Own). Lagos and other parts of Southwestern Nigeria were
places I visited to get the eyes of publishers’ attention. Yet, my efforts
ended in wild goose chases!
I gained admission to study Mechanical Engineering at the
University of Agriculture, Abeokuta (now the Federal University of
Agriculture), Ogun State, Nigeria. It was towards the end of my second semester
of my second year that I decided to go fully into writing. Making it a career,
in other words. The reason I chose to enroll for Mechanical Engineering is
still, to this day, a mystery to me, considering the fact that I saw no
‘future’ in it long before I gained admission and I’d almost silenced the writing
gift in me. It was when circumstances beyond my control—irregular financial
support, the consequent difficulties in coping academically and poor teaching
facilities—to be an author—a long-ago conceived dream.
Having being rejected by over forty publishers in Lagos and
Oyo states, I decided to shift my focus online—the use of the internet.
Between 2010 to 2013, my online journey into the search of book publishers
began. I’d written over twenty manuscripts that cut across several literary
genres. I also suffered over a hundred rejections during that period. It never
deterred me from forging ahead—finding a home for my works.
The year 2014 remains a red-letter year in my life. It was
in that year that my name, that is, my pen name, ‘’Mr. Ben’’, appeared in
print! Indeed, it was a dream-come-true experience for me. A period in my life
where I could say to me, ‘’I’m a success being a published author!’’ The
publication was The World We Live In, a short story collection, published by
Taldros Publishing, Lebanon.
Today, I am proudly a published author of several
books. My books can be found at www.amazon.com/author/mrben . I’m
grateful to the publishers whom made homes for my books, friends (the ones I
met online since 2015 and still keep in touch with them) for their support,
advice and encouragement.
To Cristina Deptula of Synchchaos Magazine, Dane Zahorsky of Youth Passageways, Kalahari Review, Savant Anthology, Maria Zani, Martino Cruz of The Silentium Project, Steve Canon (of Blessed Memory) of Gathering of Tribes, Revival Waves of Glory Books and Publishing, Pen It! Publications and many others, I say a ‘big thank you’.
With them, it has been a rewarding journey. I look forward
to seeing them being a part of my grand-breaking literary success in future!
They have been: ‘’The help from where I least expected!’’
I’ve made mistakes. More than a few. I haven’t always apologised for my behaviour, for the mistakes I made, the wrong journey I took, the path less travelled. I am broken inside. I sometimes feel numb and dead inside when I exercise. Especially when I exercise. When I’m stressed out, I exercise a lot. I watch films. I read poetry. I write poetry. But these days it just feels as if I can’t carry out the simplest of tasks. I feel that nobody really loves me for me. I think of Elvis, I think of Sinatra, I think of Sammy Davis Junior. I think of their friendship. The bonds between them. They were brothers. They had each other’s backs. They looked out for one another. They loved each other. I do not know what love is. Growing up my mother loved herself. Narcissist I think is the correct term. Always in heels and a G-string. Sexed up. My father was an absent father by all accounts. But, to all intents and purposes he gave me a happy life, a happy childhood. So, I am taking the memories wherever I go. Wherever, whenever, and I mean the happiest memories I’ve had, I still have, are the moments I spent with my father. Eating ice cream, going to the beach, visiting the clinical psychologist, buying the month’s groceries, playing under his desk at work. My father’s friends were my friends. The people that knew my father, knew me from a young age. Precocious and cute, always wanting to make people with sad eyes laugh, and if I couldn’t get them to laugh, I would get them to smile at least. When I was born before the eighties, George Botha passed away that year, from an apparent suicide. Biko slipped on a bar of soap. Then there’s Dulcie.
Dulcie September (I wonder what her
children would have been like, her husband, would she have settled in London,
married a man who had green, or blue eyes. Rick Turner was assassinated by a
man with a gun (they haven’t found him yet), Kevin Carter was killed by a stray
bullet as he was taking pictures of the unrest in the townships during the
brutal heights of the heyday of apartheid. Political activists of colour were
being arrested at every turn. Turn the corner, walk in the opposite direction
someone, someone would be following you. The Americans I think termed that
phrase Big Brother is watching you, or else it could have been anyone really. I’m
young, but I have an old soul. Yes, I read poetry. Yes, I read books too.
Basically, anything I can get my hands on. I love getting my hands dirty in the
kitchen. The cake flour, the dough I eat off my fingers, dust the doughnuts
with icing sugar, or cocoa, keeping busy, busy, busy, trying not to think,
trying not to think of anyone, or anything. It is a long, long way to Rapunzel,
Rimbaud, Verlaine, Proust, Nabokov, Salinger, Rilke, Akhmatova, and Coco Chanel.
It is an even longer distance to Billy Graham, Archbishop Desmond Tutu, Walter
Sisulu, Oliver Tambo, Neville Alexander, Fikile Bam, Patrice Motsepe,
ex-president Nelson Rolihlahla Mandela, ex-president Thabo Mbeki, ex-president
Jacob Zuma, and president-elect Cyril Ramaphosa. Then I think of the land of
the free, and the home of the brave, and the American presidents (the leaders
of the free world), George Washington, Abraham Lincoln, JFK, Thomas Jefferson, Barack
Obama, and Donald Trump.
Nobody knows anything really about
their childhood. Rapunzel, like all fairy tales, like the Native Americans, and
the Eastern Cape poets Ayanda Billie, Robert Berold, Brian Walter, Mzi Mahola,
the late Arthur Nortje, the late Dennis Brutus, Mxolisi Nyezwa, they are all
frozen in the snow of my memory. I want people to love me. Just like my dad.
People love daddy. People loved daddy. But inside I am sad. I am not even loved
in my own home. My mother hates me. How to get over the mental cruelty, her
un-loveliness to me over the years, her utter humiliation of me when she saw
how close me and dad were getting. She was in the house, put on a disappearing
act whenever I appeared. I tell myself that nobody loves me. That I’m a
rubbish-throw-away-type of person. Nobody should associate themselves with me. I
have no self-esteem, then low self-esteem. Sleep around. No, not really. I just
give expert hand jobs, and I never kiss. Never. Too intimate, it makes me feel
vulnerable, and when you kiss someone there are just so many levels to it, you
know. The first kiss. Well, you always remember that. You always remember the
person who first kissed your lips. And after that, after that you open your
warm mouth (I think of everything as an experiment, an adventure, an exploration
of sorts). They have all gone out into the world now. The wives have done what
is impossible for me. Given the boys children. That, that, that right there is
too much for me to take, to handle, although I know I will survive. Believe me,
I survive without cocaine and alcoholism, without sexuality and the sexual
transaction (as Jean Rhys said in After Leaving Mr Mackenzie).
I endure with the best of them. I love
like the greats. The great singer and songwriters (the late Karen Carpenter),
musicians (Lenny Kravitz, Fiona Apple). I too have been careless with the
hearts of delicate people. Some have moved on with their lives, and have
forgotten all about me. I pretend to wake up in the mornings to the legends
that the boys have become. They are men who rule empires now. They have
forgotten all about me, forsaken me for money, prosperity, prestige, status
(I’m mixing up my similes here). I miss them. I miss them like crazy. I wish I
was back there, not here. Each and every day in Johannesburg was either a
summer-ish day, or winter. I wish I was in love again, but I’m not. I’m a
wreck. Still the same wreck I was 20 years ago. I’m growing older. I’m in my
forties now. What a terrible age. The onset of menopause, flashbacks to a time
and place when you were happier, when you could afford to make mistakes, behave
foolishly, and love, love, love, and dance the night away with multiple
partners on your arms, but I didn’t know about the world. Didn’t know anything
about the world. So, mothers, be good to your daughters. They will learn to
love like you do. I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know anything about
love. I can smoke, I can drink when I hang out with the guys. I love men. Women
ignore me. Women talk down to me. Women humiliate me in front of their
children, mother-in-law, and especially, especially their boyfriends, their
husbands, life partners. You know that kind of girl. You know that kind of
woman. She’s beautiful, exceptional-looking.
She dresses down, she dresses up. I’m
that kind of woman now. Can someone hear my plea? Anyone, anyone? Anyone out
there? All I ever wanted was for my mother to tell me how much she loved me,
how proud she was of me, and she didn’t. Still doesn’t to this day. And I hate
violence of any kind, even in films. I still believe in what Walt Disney
proclaimed. It is my mantra still to this day. I believe in family values. I
guess it is the principle behind it. Norms and values. Growing up with norms
and values. A kind of belief system, even though I did go to Sunday School, and
memorise Bible verses, and was indoctrinated into religion by the Union
Congregational Church, (I’m not religious anymore, although I still pray, still
meditate, believe in reconciliation, and as such there is evil in the world, but
there is also the greater good). Anyway, I am much more of a spiritual person
now, from an early age I believed in angels. Truth for some, but not truth for
all. I believe in the qualities of a good Christian, Brahmin, Yogi, Hindu,
Muslim, Lutheran, Baptist, Methodist, and Catholic. All religions hold truth at
the cornerstones of their foundation. So, instead of making war, think instead
(this is for all the world leaders, mothers, fathers, sons, and daughters out
there), make peace (keep the peace in the house, reconcile your differences,
sit at the table and break bread, talk about your day, don’t isolate yourself
from either your family, or your community). Be kind. You can kill with
kindness you know. Today that person could be your enemy, tomorrow (as the
ancients, prophets, saints, angels say) that same enemy could be your friend.
Money and wealth won’t make you beautiful.
Inner beauty, understanding and understanding devotion to others less fortunate
than yourself, the marginalised, downtrodden, those living in poverty-stricken
areas in dire straits give them your peace too, and something to eat. The game
of life is made up of winners and losers. The loser always forgets about the
lesson that they have learned. The winner takes it all. Always remember it is
how you play the game. Life is precious. People are precious too. We are only
human at the end of the day. Once, they said that someday technology will
surpass humanity. Code breakers, the women and men who serve countries around
the world, and who are willing to sacrifice their lives for millions of
people). I think also of scientists like Sir Isaac Newton, Niels Bohr, Max
Planck, Pavlov, Albert Einstein, Marie Curie (twice-winner) of the Nobel Prize.
I think of researchers dealing with computers, information communication
technology, indigenous knowledge systems, the great digital divide between the
haves and the have nots (first world countries and third world countries). I
think of intellectuals like Pliny the Elder, Aristotle, Hippocrates, Homer, and
Plato. Isn’t every intellectual an authority on philosophy, education, subjects
as diverse and varied (Leonardo da Vinci, Michelangelo), as the holistic vision
of an educationalist, community leader, humanist, activist, volunteer, just as
much as a person can be plumber, he can also be a storyteller (everybody has a
story to tell), and a poet. His name can be Yusuf Agherdien, Ambrose Cato
George, and Shaheed Hendricks.
(The writers of the book South End: As
We Knew It, although District Six in Cape Town is more well-known when it comes
to the promulgation of the Group Areas Act). They can even be the curator, and
a writer-visionary-maverick of the world-famous museum, the South End Museum,
that has its roots in Saint Helena. An island in the middle of the ocean, that
could only in the past be reached by a Royal Mail Ship that sailed from Cape
Town to Saint Helena. Are we still slaves, our minds enslaved by oppression and
racism, prejudice and gangsterism, the abuse of alcohol and mental cruelty? It
has become a global phenomenon. It has become a buzzword. In my mind, we are
all then victims of circumstance, of trauma, of incidents that happened in our
childhood. And yes, we fall prey to evil deeds, and evil thoughts, we sin, and
sometimes we pray and ask for forgiveness, and sometimes we don’t. We don’t
learn the lesson; we would rather abscond. Go our own way. For some of us, this
is all we know. Running away from loss and grief, denial and instigation, and
when we do that we are motivated by our own fear, anxiety, even insanity (which
means two things, break from reality, or non-reality). When you’re in high school all you want to do
is hang with the popular crowd, go out with the most popular boy in school,
obtain high marks, achieve on the sports field and inside the classroom. I was
an obsessive-compulsive achiever, and the only people I wanted to impress were
the women in my family. The women make babies, and stay at home, cook and
clean, raise their family, but in my world the husband was always marrying the
mistress.
We know the affect that climate change
has had on the seasons, harvests, running water, rain, sanitation, and it
spells disaster in all areas. Floods, tornadoes, tsunamis, storms, drought
which affects our farmers, and particular our agriculture all over the world. I
digress. I come back to those two words again. Global phenomenon. We are
reaching a climatic stage of events in world history. Ask yourself these
questions, think about them, ponder them as you would any project that is
highly creative, and imaginative, that needs you to focus, and concentrate. Put
all your energies into it, as you would your children’s lives, and your
husband’s or wife’s welfare. What is your legacy, will it be hidden from view,
or be there for all to see? What is your calling, your purpose in life, what
are you extremely passionate about (I must have asked myself these questions
thousands of times, and so, no, I’m not exaggerating)? What are your empirical
dreams, lofty goals, pre-imminent plans? Are you concerned about the spiritual
welfare of others, as I am?
The Hammer and the Dance
The hammer and the dance
in this atlas of the world,
in the season of pandemic,
like two stanchions on a court;
between, a tightening line
like the imaginary line
on the cartographer’s expedient chart,
on one side, the dutiful girls,
on the other, boys in masks;
around them hung a wall of distance
that surrounds them like a fort;
at their feet, forgotten tasks.
And the hammer beats the time
for the young ones as they dance.
What of the future? What of the past?
What of the present? You may well ask.
There was something to be done
now forever left undone.
Where there once appeared a mask,
now a flawed map hides its face
in a hand scarred by this place;
now there is a face of ash.
And the hammer beats the time
for the young ones as they dance.
Deep inside the twisting globe
opens up a burning robe.
And tonight the silence hurls
into darkness its moot sign
like a banner never furled,
like the alchemist’s alembic
charred with his defeated gold,
like the future’s gathering dark
and the iron in the heart.
And the hammer beats the time
for the young ones as they dance.
Spiritus
When you see it, you will know.
The shaky camera, the kneeling
men in midnight blue:
they look at first as though
they are praying, pious
as three altar boys,
caught in an innocuous crime, perhaps
stealing holy wafers or consecrated wine.
But they are not.
The shaking camera stops,
and you hold in your breath,
like clutching at a hand,
not quite believing that you see
what it is you think you see.
Underneath their knees,
in the brutal sun,
a dark form. And a voice from the feed:
"I can't breathe, I can't
breathe! I can't breathe! I
can't breathe!" For four minutes and
forty-six seconds,
as the altar boys pray
in the shouting glare.
Then it stops. The video
stops. The voice stops. The praying
stops. The breathing
stops And you breathe,
too late. But you seethe, you seethe.
_____
Christopher Bernard is co-editor and poetry editor of the webzine Caveat Lector. His new collection of poems, The Socialist’s Garden of Verses, will appear in the fall of 2020.
The Unseen Blossom by Zlaikha Y. Samad and L’Mere Younossi
L’Mere Younossi and Zlaikha Y. Samad’s The Unseen Blossom
The Unseen Blossom is a story that is both magical and a love story. The story is about Princess Zuli and Lamar, a shoemaker in Kabul. They are both chosen to go on an enchanted journey to find the elusive blossom of the Fig Tree. Along the way they go through gardens of enchanted trees, plants, animals and fish. They have realized that in another life, their souls have been interwoven to be soulmates for eternity. Their role is to learn how to bring unity and peace to their world. This is the most wonderful and delightful story that is perfect for any age. The message in the book is completely relevant in today’s world. We can all learn from its message of unity, peace and love.
