WHEN THEY RETURNED TO AN EMPTY HOME
Except for the foot steeps sound of grasses,
Which danced to the ruffling tones of the air,
everywhere was calm,
as calm as the dead abode
or minutes dedicated to him.
Mother weeps flaying her ebony flesh
with stones of the earth,
Father in manly lamentation
shook his head in rhetoric despair;
"ai-yin boh?"
"my children too?"
up to the sky he searched for hope;
"Adam, in kwu wan to laboh".
"Father, unto thy hand i commit them".
The time they left no one knows,
even the cock in its ringing voice could not tell,
they have since gone,
but in the arena, struggling foot prints of children
protesting their innocence and contesting their priceless freedom,
and the big toe-less foot and tobacco smell,
that fouled the air of roasted games
paint the picture of painful memories
that lies not too far away in the corner of the past.
The echoes of banging metals,
the cry of tortured slaves,
who still live in illusion,
ignorant of the reality of their new status,
but hanging on to a lost, pampering up bringing,
that has been stolen by time and voyage across the endless sea
is the story of their cubs conditions.
In the friut farm they sweat,
longing for their root
of milk and honey
Okibe, Samson Onmeje
+2348027058134 | +2348056895054
onmejekibe@yahoo.com
