POSTED 05/06/2018 12:45
How do I start a poem when the ink is bloody?
If they had flown from the wicked; grateful would be my name.
But the blood drips from the soul of Christopher Okigbo
And over tens of thousands from the pogrom in1966.
This is not a poem but a song of peace to the carcasses of the innocent
And hope to the town unknown.
When the outside world threatens your life, you run in.
Where do you run when the flame burns from the inside?
You became fugitives in your own kingdom
Your kings begged for bread & your kinsmen's blood cleanses the soil.
Your women bore anguish when their water broke.
This cun-try will flow with milk and honey afresh,
'cause it’s supposed milk is sour and
her honey is horny for power.
The green land will become fertile again
And the gods of the land will rekindle their peace on her.
And if it doesn’t happen,
tell Achebe; 'there will be a country'.
The labour of thy heroes past now seems to be in vain.
These same curved rulers,
marginalization they bring always.
No wonder they say: culprits don't remember the harm caused on the crime scene.
Inhale all the pieces of this piece
your struggles will be like a dynamite; soon they'll blow.
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