Thursday, May 21, 2020

MY CHILD

The moon was smiling at Grandpa's homestead
I could hear my clansmen pounding the leather drums
Crickets chirping and owls hooting
This was the African night I longed for.

Grandpa laid asleep
His face up, while his back faced the earth
He was among the fallen heroes of the Hamlet
Sleeping six feet below a pile of sand.

Grandma sat on a wooden stool
Chewing on her youthful days 
As she munched her chewing stick
Her eyes staring into the future as she thought about the past.

My child! She called out
Come sit close to me
Under the luxury of this moonlit night
Let me tell you a story
A story with which I'll write history
On the clean slate of your childhood memory
Let me tell you what my father told me
About his father and the fathers that were before him.

Once, your ancestors were giants
Men that wrestled with leopards and lions
Men that fought with tigers for tribes
These men carved the ivory mask of Benin
They made the furnace that fired the terracotta
They carved the Calabar statues with elongated arms
They danced to the tune of the Tom-tom and Kakaki
They lived the written literature of Moremi, Mutanda and more.

Your ancestors were great men
Their braveness the height of the Kilimanjaro
Their love for one another flowing like the Nile
Their strength like the raffia ropes of Ikot Ekpene
Their African spirit was wild fire in the harmattan

But like your grandpa,
They died forgotten as their red caps lost its colours
The day they died, 
The African spirit fell asleep

What killed the African spirit 
Was the question my innocent childhood lips could mutter
Change!
The white change
As the church bell rang from afar.
Grandma pointed at the crucifix
There lies the reason
That cathedral sent the African spirit to sleep
It made us cast away our sack cloth and follow the cotton cassock
We lost our fathers because a man came to teach us how to say our father.
And like sheep, we ate the wheat and weed from the pastures of the pulpit
And till today, like sheep, we obey the shepherd and not the master.

© Ifiokobong Etuk
(KING of the QUILL)




Monday, May 4, 2020

PALLBEARERS


PALLBEARERS

Your legs are revamping brooms
Sweeping the life out of the way
As you stride in a dancesteps of the dirge.

Your shoulders are open umbrellas
Carrying sleeping souls and dead dreams
In the parade of a last respect.

Dear pallbearer.

Does your shoulder ever ache
From carrying the heavy burden
Of a widows wails and an orphan's misery?

Does your soul ever feel sober
To the dirge meant for the men you lift
In the long procession to resting in peace?

Does it ever occur to you
That while you're just working for butter on your daily bread
The world sees you as ambassadors of death?

I salute your courage for many million reasons
To march in the midst of tears and not tear
Offering your shoulders to lift the funeral burden
While your faces become a mental image the dirge creates.

I worry about your end more than mine
For if you lead all to the grave and none is left
What feet shall walk you home when you die?
What shoulders will lift your cups in a toast?
What voice will sing your dirge?

For if you lead all to the grave and none is left
Then none will have the right to bid you farewell.

© Ifiokobong Etuk
(KING of the QUILL)