Grim reality it was
Washed upon the cruel shores of a certainty,
We tweaked amid the shouts of woes;
Ours was a distance perceived in virtuoso
Nonetheless, we assumed it won’t come to that.
The stakes was not death, but
The extinction of a factor, a race, a people,
Whose crimes were measured by the wisdom-
Locked in their proactive genes. We are, we were,
The turbulence others never wished, the vision they feared to face,
Yet, we were peace; peace in times of conflict, in moments of hate.
Our trouble was compounded by the varying degrees of conflicting images
Which in reality was the numbness of our attitudes….
Unholy lies our land, tormented became our hearts, oh! Savagery,
What on earth had we done? What unbecoming nemesis is revisiting us?
Be that as it may, the seeds of conflict were then deeply sown.
Days, weeks, nay months slowly crept by
The monstrous assumptions of our deterred minds crawled along with it,
Presumptions were our consolations,
But in the mean time it darkened our mentalities.
Ndigbo were sorry pictures of their original self,
The images we portray were askance, and
On further reflection oozes of bile.
One might presume our task was just to survive, but
The impressions on our faces reflect a wish much more than to survive.
Each tale, that flows from our minds, though muffled, was
A story in fate, a story meant to outlive our mutilated bodies.
Yet, we gained neither in time nor in mind!
Whither from her? Whither oh, Sons of Amadioha, from this impending calamity?
The savage violence of our persecutors, their abandonment in shameless cruelty, was matched only by the wildness of the Nazis;
End-time preachers of peace amongst men,
Were debunked by the intensity of the savagery visited on Ndigbo.
In less than they can, became fodders for the flames of man made Armageddon’s. What was the imposition that led to these? The will of the creator, was debunked on the surface of our multiple trials, most minds, in hopelessness, screamed & cursed the eternal for becoming ephemeral; for becoming ensconced in the pogrom of a section of his lazy creations. However, we moaned, he closed on his ears & the woes which became portraits of our desperation only drew brief pauses from the immaculate darkness of his divisive wholeness.
They made the law, created the will & in suppressed zealousness invented time as a circled ring, leading out there but to nowhere; and upon this damned ring, our Igbo fates were tied and exposed to the kaleidoscopic interference of the psyche gods called: Civilization.
What orgies of shame, what shackles of doom?
Angling within the limited space of Biafra, were the phantoms of a dubious marriage of allah & god, a wedding feast hosted by jesus & mohammed. A feast upon the torn & tortured flesh of my Biafran brethren, & a toast upon our sacred blood, served on the testicles of inducted addicts to “holy” adultery!
Who held brief for us? Who showed we were human? Where were the
Adulations of faith so recklessly preached by missionaries, whom we now know are but emissaries of death? Conspiracies of time & fate became the undoing of our Igbo nerves.
With brazen faces and claws deep upon our soul, they raped our land & ripped through the soils of our fertile souls, searching for that flawless & pristine Spirit, which was our identity.
How would you oh! Shameless adulterer, seek to find ether, with your polluted eyes; cynical volitions of your raping soldiers, only marked the limits of your obtuseness. You harmed us, you harassed us, but can you say for sure if you have us?
Weep not, oh! Weep not departed, for us the living;
We are neither ignorant nor vanquished as presently touted, by bastard children of
Those marauding sycophants!
Though traditions, they say has many faces; ours has been, & still remains uniquely
Preserved in the conscience of our women folks, through their impressive and monumental repository of folk memory. Hence, before the next wave of historical cock-crow, we shall rise again; rise through the multiple blindfolds of destructive impositions, to take our place amongst the cultures of men.
Wherefore, the breeze of our eternal freedom would blow to sustain the edicts of our primitive yet simple lore?
I hear, like in a whisper the consultations still going on in their kingdom,
Plans to further enslave us; they speak in mimics, pretending to believe in what we do, they posses our lands, thinking by this that they posses us. Are they serious? Dead so, I think.
Are there names for wits gone dumb? Are the postures undertaken in perjury?
Could there be a better understanding of lisping falsehood; as the one so shamelessly produced by the Britons and enacted by Nigeria, hideously upon my Biafran brethren?
We may be silent; we may be quiet, but we have not forgotten!
Dark were the nights, on the deep forests of raped Biafran landscapes,
Bodies limp, putrefied & senselessly butchered littered every mile; maybe the gods would have relented were these killings meant as a sacrifice to them, alas it was not so. The hovering spirits of these departed innocents, filtered into the trees, shrubs and roots, amid the wails of the living, waiting as in torpor, the forthcoming of a savior to liberate their souls, still saturating our forests.
The sorrows of our intensive pains, became mute songs, sang in silence;
Songs hopeful, yet sadly unveiling the hypocrisies of power, the shames of words & the restlessness of debauchery, as exhibited by our oppressors, in a fractured climax of ignominy.
Our land became, the house of the spirits; the harbinger of strange mutants,
In the overzealous ambitions of our taskmasters, much sorrow was begat; enslaving us, they enslaved themselves, worrying not how to break us, but now, how in a space of time to crush us away from the face of the earth.
Hovering around the distance we created between here & then,
The timeless imprints of our quivering lips, in stutters, mutter
A mute prayer to a god that is bared confused to the minds of the mutilated;
Our grooves had eyes; eyes of emaciated & withered spirits of our ancestors,
Thirsty for unconscious libations of songs & dances from children long gone; they thirst and hunger, not for sacrifices,
But for the raucous cry of babies, for the joyous shouts of youths, for the sympathetic brooding groans of elders, yet, they moan, they thirst, not knowing
These are gone, gone with the blast and blight of horrific destruction.
The dark lingers on, Biafra mute, hangs on the fatal balance of displacement and destruction. Yet they moan; the maiden voice of Biafra has now become a sad voiceless
Consonant meant for mourning. Are we the hoop or the belligerent discards of fatal error?
The clues are in the soil; the soil of Mother Nature that drinks the blood of its descendants like choice gins of our despicable marauders.
Yet the soil too is mute!
What more shall I chant of?
Shall I hum of the terrible chastisement inflicted upon our people?
Or of the more dreadful outrages perpetrated upon our minds?
Is it of the death of our powers or the still worse demise of our sublime aspirations? What? oh! What tale shall I tell? Is it that
‘Of christian Britain betraying christian Biafra’? Which do I leave or more so include?
Is it of the dreadful liabilities we were continually subjected, destitute of friendly counsels and aid; or of the heavy midnight of woe which shrouded in darkness and blackened our last hopes of survival? Shall I sing of the hope of a better future that died like a whisper upon the lips of our mothers? Or of the fabled lost generation of children flown or did they say shipped to Gabon on the wings of terror? Do you want, oh! The shame of it, to hear
Of the grotesque perils we encountered in our endeavors to escape the horrible doom of slavery which was the decided lot for us? Do you, oh! Youth, Desire to hear of the animated recklessness of gothic power when left in the hands of a few mad men? Or of the benign desires in the hearts of few others to remain free?
Shall I tell you of the monumental sacrilege pitilessly visited upon our land?
Yes, I will tell you all, sing of these, entire above all I’ll tell you of the pathos and sublimity of which Biafra became a sobriquet!
Oh! How accursed is that system, which entombed our dreams, defaced our culture, reduced our folks to gory sights of deformity, while intending to crown upon our soil & soul the savage insolence of the uncircumcised villains! Chukwu ekwela!
From the clustered hills of the Nsukka plains,
Through the high hills of Ngwo to the
Luscious greens of the wider Biafran plains lay
Desolations unimaginable; the hearth that bred us all
Lay deserted, crushed and shattered in the high noon of our sultry history.
The fresh waters of Oji, Imo and Itu like the soul of its suffering children,
Dulled with blood & unhealthy for ingestion, served as the death drops in
A tart struggle for survival
Though the universe looked the same, its story
speckled as our destiny, told of the ageless pain of man & time!
The stars bore the scars of our trepidation, the moon often faceless
Shone like the dim-witted neap of shattered hopes, the sun, and
The endless clusters of heavenly bodies bore testimonies to the laceration
Of our fatal existence.
Children were born and borne in stripes of muted sighs;
They bring the uncomfortable gossip of nether worlds
That like Obganjes they were not here to stay; through the grey
Vacuity of their eyes, our cynic minds was muffled the more.
And like relapsing vapors in a barren band of eternal horizons,
We gaze as they recede back from where they came.
Our lands emptied, the brushes & fields, resilient & evergreen,
That once clothed our nakedness, dries up in the heat of the,
Infinite promiscuity of shameful rape…
Yet we know, ECHI DI IME….!