We fought in tranquility,
For freedom in our mother's womb,
She cried for our immaturity,
To stand like an Iroko tree,
In the forest full of wild animals.
In the field of her womb,
Battled her million times,
Until she surrendered for our delivery,
In a direction-less forest,
With no purpose to walk.
Like leaves dance to the rhythm of the storm,
Singing and clapping sounds,
Echoed in the four walls of the world,
For we are heroes; we claimed to stand,
On the land of blackish souls.
Mother walked up to heaven,
Her two fruits drizzling milky juice,
Beyond the reach of her baby's mouth,
That grew of malnutrition,
Under the roof of a greenish hut.
Falling and rising like the dawn,
Lurking behind the veil of night,
We become oblivious of the smiling faces,
Of education,
Of health,
Of economy,
Of infrastructures,
Until they disappeared like ashes.
Ra-ta-ta-ta-tataaa; bom-bom,
We send our helping-hands; daily,
To the early journey of no return,
For the living to tread on the path,
Smeared by clotted black blood.
The old graves wear angry faces,
At sixty,
We clothed in inheritance,
For we are wolves,
That feed on forbidden flesh,
that fought for our survival.
With an empty stomach,
We belch of satisfaction,
Becoming a giant of fifty-four heads,
That grown wings to fly,
To the shore of the Pacific Ocean.
Behind tomorrow's curtain,
Peace stretches out its soothing hands,
To wipe the stream of tears,
Flowing for six decades,
"I can't let you be in pieces",
It promised.
Meet the poet
2 Comments
Fantastic
ReplyDeleteAn early life of struggle often brings great strength. While some of the references here are ones I may never understand, as I live on the other side of the world, I very much understand the struggles of a young mother trying to survive, I grew up in circumstances similar, though perhaps not as dire. Very well-written.
ReplyDeleteDan