Remembering the Day of Rain 2

Still in deep thought about Dike. I think the beautyful ones are not yet born as Kwei Armah said but the exceptional one die too soon.

On the 13th of January 2007, the poetry world lost someone who had always been a forceful gale in the poetry performance climate. With a style that hit you full in the face leaving you no choice but to suck in deep and breathe, his performances always left people breathless. One with a cheeky smile, he drew you in into his words, his facial expressions, his tone and then he swept you off your feet like a hurricane and spat you out again but you never felt broken or damaged, his torrents cleansed.

He was always quiet but you knew he was there, the second time I met him, I turned to Anwen Lewis (another poet) and said 'he is a beautiful man' graciously, he smiled but didn't say a word, mortified that he might have misunderstood me, Anwen reassured me with 'he likes it when people say he's beautiful' I never had much time to know him, despite Bolton being 25 minutes away by car, for the train bound like myself, it could sometimes take forever to get to Manchester, so I skipped out on a lot of events, but the few times I made it and met him and watched him perform, it was always a delight, my favourite of his was 'Tired'.

Now I wonder if in so many ways that we now see he was trying to tell us something. It takes a very strong willed man to take the decision that he took and that holds my respect. The last time I saw him was at the Tongue and Hammer slam in Bolton, he walked past and I said hello and a poet standing next to me (I forget who now) said 'Dike looks a bit thin don't you think'? And I replied ' But he's never been a fat person, has he'? Little did we know that, that which sucked his life force was kept hidden from our eyes by his determination to go on, his poetic zeal and his struggle to go under his own terms.

Dike died alone. That is I think what hurts me on the inside because I don't think anyone should died on their own. My mind has raked over the different possibilities that could either have saved him or made his passage easier, especially in the Nigerian context where people are always around you, it is alien to die on your own, but he did and I mourn that. However, I also celebrate him, for he was a good poet and man. Everyone have their faults, Dike did have his but he was a good man. He saw my performance for the first time, gave me his card, and told me I would go far, he and Segun Lee French introduced me to the Makeda group and I had a brilliant time.

At the Identity workshop, he had nothing but encouragement for me and even when he disagreed with some points I had made, he wasn't arrogant about it. Several times, I had to call him to say 'Sorry I can't make it' and he would say 'Next time then' Only there would be no next time now for him, for me to see him. With Dike, it is over, the end.

This year, he sent an email round to the Identity group saying something like 'Glad we all made it into the new year'. That was his feeling and something I will hold on to. Dike was glad for everyday, despite his pain, he was glad. So I am glad for every time, I met him, spoke to him, and saw him. I believe his memory will live on, through the things he had done, the people he had mentored, his very essence.

And we would remember this remarkable man who graced our lives and we would tell upcoming poets, performance artistes and writers about this man who's act was electric and we would make them wish they had known him. We will tell them about this man and he was called Dike Omeje.

Remembering the Day of Rain

I wrote this piece on the 26th of January 2007 after I heard the news. I was so shocked and I felt slapped. It was the first time, something that awful had happened to me since I came into the UK (more was to come) and I couldn't just wrap my head around it.

Dike, I remember you today lifting my head to the heavens and blowing you a kiss. Adieu you beautiful beautiful inside and out man.

Today, we bury Dike Omeje, returning his body back to earth. Today, we let go of the last physical reminder and take what we know only in doses of recorded words, books and pictures and of course our memories. Today, we resign ourselves , it is the TRUTH, we give him back to earth and we turn away and go back to the business of living, surviving, being.

I cried this morning, not for Dike, not for myself but for his mother. No woman should have to bury a child and I cried for her pain, her loss, her grief, I cried for the sharp sting of bereavement she will carry for the rest of her days, and I prayed for her, that she would survive each day having less pain than the day before. It won't go away, I know but may it be bearable.

Today is the day we give back someone who was sent for a while to add that sparkle and pizzazz to our lives, we give back the one God sent to let us know what it is like to know a man sprinkled with angel dust. Today.

I wrote this for Dike and read some of it out at his wake and I want to say thank you to the many people who, even though, they had never met him, shared in the grief that we all have. I want to say thank you to friends who called and wrote to say 'we are with you in grief over this loss of life'. This milk of human kindness that so binds us is deep and thick. Thank you.

He. Poet- Dike Omeje

You told us.
You told us
In ringing tones
Steady beats as your voice trailed
Over our skin, our ears, minds
Your words, philosophical, lyrical, true
In the midst of laughter and rain
So many starless nights
You told us
But you never uttered a word.

You knew.
You knew as
We walked the town of a million mirrors
Clinked glass, clicked shots
Smiled and said 'cheese' for the camera
You let us take memories in any form
That we pleased
Silent in your pleasure,
We would go back to remember
You knew
But you let us go on in our ignorance.

Now we know
Questions crowd my mind

Did you groan with pain at night?
Far from our questing intrusive eyes
Far from our glances that rapidly turn
From curious to shocked to pity
Did you hate the thought that we
Could love or hate you differently
If we had that emotion to link to you
Is that why you were silent?

Were you shrouded with your own agony?
Shuddering in stolen silences you got
Cursing the demon that ate within you
Yet using the same to bring out a power
We marvelled at every time
Did you hope for a salvation?
Or were you just determined to be remembered
For how you lived and died
With the stubbornness of the strong.

Questions, dear sage
Inquire how you faced the hooded one

Did you fight when his cold hands
Clamped around your heart
Or did you bare your chest,
Invited him to plunge his knife
Facing him like a lion
Did you still have anything else to say?
Or had you made your peace
Knowing 'come what may'

Did memories cloud your glazing eyes?
And voices speak to be heard
Or was all calm, silent, letting you walk
The mirrored river in dignity
To that cold embrace.

Did you struggle to breathe just one more time?
Or did you sigh with relief
This war, no more to fight
Whatever way you went, brave one
It won't diminish that you lived
A strong man and died
A courageous one.

Bard with the 'come hither' eyes
You have closed them, one final time
Your voice ebbs and fades
Our ears tuned to hear the echo as it falls
You have walked the road of the elders
Kissed the feet of the shrouded one
Held his hand and danced in time
Not this lifetime again to meet
But while you were here, you made clear
You wrote, you spoke, you. Poet.

Adieu Dike Omeje- silent at the steps