#114. Floetry by JulietKego: No Flowers on Your Grave

Poems about Biafra

Floetry by JulietKego: No Flowers on Your Grave

They pretend,
there was never a country.
They pretend, they never saw
your mournful moons
or sickled-shaped stars
or half-hearted, jaundiced
sunsets, sun days and sunrises.
How they struggle to pretend,
living lies, like you never were.
They snuffed out
all memories of your life
with pillaging lies
on pillows of propaganda.
Fed your naive mother,
smooth rolled lines of proper ganja.
You, an ectopic pregnancy,
they left your carcass
in her fallopian tube.


You, an ignored still-birth,
they left behind
your putrid placenta,
to rot in her hungry,
distended womb.
And now, the children
of Kwashiorkor children,
who came after you
are drenched
in the pungent odours of
clotted blood, excreta,
and caked tears,
kneaded into your saliva,
semen and salty sweat.


They come, wrapped up
in bloodied blankets
reeking of perfumed fears,
cocky, only in the darkened light,
crippled by cowardly compromises.
Like bastard children,
they do not have the courage
to bear your name in the light.
These are the ones who now dig up
your desecrated tombs,
and stupidly seek,
to exhume your broken-hearted bones
They, who put neither names
on your headstones 
nor flowers
on your non-existent graves
(not even wild flowers on roadsides in Nri)


They come today
to robe you in faded isi agu,
stolen elephant tusks
and cursed cowrie shells,
to adorn you with layers and layers
of fake coral beads. Tufiakwa.
They come to remake you
in their own efulefu image
of vile self-centredness,
grabbing-greed and power-lust.
They play ncho with your truth;
breaking your trust.


But you are more
than mere dead bones,
your spirit is alive and adrift;
wandering the Earth
(your descendants scattered in every land),
you are wasting away,
weeping, waiting for worthy bodies
of your sons and daughters to inhabit
Your children who recognize
you are not a garb to be worn
at night and cast aside by day,
in senseless protesting shows of disgrace
(Seeking rotten fruits for already full bellies).


You wait patiently for your children
they, who will finally see you
as formless spirit,
entrenched in their souls,
a way of living; their state of being.
They will walk tall, like giants of men
and walk tall with the carriage
of goddesses among women.
They will lay the flowers you seek,
and honour your grave, Biafra,
with your 
many species
of red-Earth coloured
Hibiscus rosa-sinensis from Nri:
Onye agha na nwanne ya;
Ifunanya; Igwebuike anyi….

 

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