by Okoye Chukwudi Charles Ezeamalukwuo

I have written to the old, a tale yet untold;
Of a young slave sold, for a few pieces of gold.
I have sung to the wind, the sad songs of the spring.
Swept leaves the autumns bring, in service of a king.
Though comrades forsake, faith strapped to the heart won’t break.
Though the nights wait, the day at dawn will surely break.
I worked plantations, exhumed thoughts of Imhotep,
Dug up the mummies of conscience, that time unkempt.
The unrepentant spirits of our ancestors,
Which the born again generation thus despise.
The lost scripts of ancient Alexandrian rectors,
Which the modern sages read aloud with blinded eyes.
The twisted rope around “Igbukwu” calabash,
The lost island of Atlantis they solely search.
I, “Ahamuefuna”. I and no other,
Stolen from the earth; from the breast of my mother.

I was marked by fire; the brand of another,
Conceived in summer; the warm kiss of a lover.
I have travelled stars yonder, a mile and further
Been to the earth’s border, returned a young elder.
I am the fires of the mystical dragon,
From fairytales to everlasting life did breathe.
The last echoed note from stem of broken bamboo,
Floating all around the gay-gentle evening breeze.
I have tasted the forbidden fruit of Eden,
Drank from the spring of life, and judged I, a heathen.
Now weak I walk with faith the path of foreign god.
Neither ills nor iron will fasten my native tongue.
I shall sing the evening songs of the nightingale,
Sorrowful psalms of slaves on the African vale.
I shall thus ordain the night, the moon I shall wed,
And baptize the twinkle stars in Hibiscus red.
I shall strike hard the heavens, free a million tears
From the shackles of darkened clouds the skies do bear.
I had sailed from the mouth of the River Niger;
Bound in chains, bearing yellow sun on my shoulder.
Explored the torrential tongues of Cleopatra,
And freed the very emotions that confined her.

Am I not a man, built of blood and brittle bone?
A chief priest and the gods have cursed my ears alone?
My lips are twisted with sharp knives of the Bantu
Warriors, till bleeding words flow from tongue’s mantle.
Do I not see through myopic eyes of mortals,
Same clay figurine, forged by distant porters?
Do I not breathe same air my anus foul, with grace?
Or should I yet dig six feet down, to save my face?
-To bury my head in shame? I; -lost son of Eri,
Unsung hero of defunct Biafran ferry.
Did I not fight for peace with both guns and cutlass
With “Ogbunigwe” and amours of lowly class?
Do I still bear dead dreams of our founding fathers?
Incinerated hopes of our fallen brothers?
I; -a peasant, whose oxen is good for slaughter.
I; -a rebel, whose homeland is good for plunder.

This is my story; a tale of wit and worry,
For which I stooped low, washed feet both base and holy.
This is my story; a tale of guns and gory
Of injured pride, past forgotten in a hurry.
Much have I endured alone: grave plunders of men.
Upon the ruins of Ashanti and asked I when:
Shall broken bones rise again to reclaim the vale?
Shall the sun rise again on faces poor and pale?
And now I shall set sail, to you Dear Africa.
To Monrovia, to the ports of Liberia.
There to live out my last days in your sweet embrace.
To run wild, chat and chatter like monkey, with grace
One with nature, and paint my soul in green and more.
Till the sun rises again, to set nevermore.

Advertisements
Comments
  1. Dr. Echewodo says:

    This piece is established… Remarkable!!!

  2. timnwaobilo says:

    This is a really interesting and vehemently self-eulogising portrait.

    Hurt, anger, dream, hopelessness.

    I see a CHARACTER who is seeking identity and his position in a plane/era that has previously maligned and sidelined him. This man now feels his past experiences have subsequently made him supernatural*.

    He had for long seen himself as his own saviour until he realises how hopeless he is, and can only dream
    […there to live out my last days in your sweet embrace
    To run wild, chat and chatter like monkey, with grace
    One with nature, and paint my soul with green and more
    Till the sun rises again to set nevermore]

    This CHARACTER asks more questions than he provides solutions for his kin, till he begins to preach to himself the reality: he is mortal.
    [..am I not a man, built of blood and brittle bone?…]

    A deeply, albeit subtly Africanised piece of art.

    [PS: If the night and day are yet to come, then what cosmic period is this man?
    …Though the night awaits, day at dawn will surely break…
    Yet alluding to his seeming supernatural* status.]

    Brilliant.

    • lyriversity says:

      Great analysis, I believe that you ought to do a full critique of this poem…you have to..I haven’t thought of this poem in this light but now you have given me a new direction…I thank you for that.

  3. timnwaobilo says:

    This is a really interesting and vehemently self-eulogising portrait.

    Hurt, anger, dream, hopelessness.

    I see a CHARACTER who is seeking identity and his position in a plane/era that has previously maligned and sidelined him. This man now feels his past experiences have subsequently made him supernatural*.

    He had for long seen himself as his own saviour until he realises how hopeless he is, and can only dream
    […there to live out my last days in your sweet embrace
    To run wild, chat and chatter like monkey, with grace
    One with nature, and paint my soul with green and more
    Till the sun rises again to set nevermore]

    This CHARACTER asks more questions than he provides solutions for his kin, till he begins to preach to himself the reality: he is mortal.
    [..am I not a man, built of blood and brittle bone?…]

    A deeply, albeit subtly Africanised piece of art.

    [PS: If the night and day are yet to come, then what cosmic period is this man?
    …Though the night awaits, day and dawn will surely break…
    Yet alluding to his seeming supernatural* status.

    Brilliant..

  4. Moses opara says:

    This poem is too deep. Wow, the imageries are apt. Set and remarkable.

  5. Anene Francis says:

    Heritage and identity of Africa lost, taken by force. Same humans yet treated as inferior. Hopefully, it is on the route to recovery…
    Beautiful piece this is, mr Solar. Since its about Africa, you did well to make it very African, lots of local ingredients used. Nice
    Off to the review I go…

  6. Profound. Mind boggling and leaving strong imagery on the mind. Great piece!

  7. […] For the full poem click here AHAMUEFUNA […]

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s