A Biafran Hero Poem by Chima Ononogbu

Many years ago
on those scabrous trees
on their lankiest branches, I usually sat
in the earliest rising of my voyage
staring deep, staring hard
into the heart of the leaves that thoughtfully swayed
while in my mind migrating back and forth
to the future yet in distance unknown.

In those days, when we spoke in whispers
because our voices were to them rebellions
hunted and beaten down, shot down
by heads crested by helmets of camouflaged skin
and in their hands laid shiny rods; cocked oppression guns
from whose mouths flew out orange flames
that creased our shoulders and bruised our heads
and made many souls go away and never to return
and night and day we chorused elegies to exhaustion.

Then, whereupon we scattered-
many keeled over and tumbled like aged frail stones
although the dark alleys would not take us
for fear the glib roaming lights may betray us
so across spooky ravines and ruffled rivers we pattered
but on malodorous swamps we dodged and ducked
our faces hid away under farting brushes
where our hopes despaired like never before.

On and on in silence we cuddled our cries
there in sad straits we sprawled, forlorn of comfort
wandering about for hopes which never came
and with pessimism we gawked, looked forth
for where the restoration voice would come.
Many voices came but none could stand
the breaking snaps of autumn beating rain
as broken reeds, they rose and fell
as moons came and went.

Down the twilight of injustice further we drifted
our pain more severe
our fear unencumbered, like pusillanimous vagrants
always on the go but going nowhere.
There in our tree bunkers, in the night hours
we groveled to pray the prayer of the hopeless dying
when as dawn began to break hope hove in sight
a voice, your voice, roared as a young lion
rolled through acreages
and through isthmus of fire and blood
wafted into our ears with as rushing melodies.

Then to our feet we stood with hands outstretched
to touch the face of our hope so new
up and up it grew as your voice thundered, ricocheted
shaking to a tear injustice walls, unclasping shackles
the blood-eyed government, seized by apoplexy
by crippling fear
then our unfreedom tumbled into hapless shards
and as rafts floated into their morning mourn.

Then on freedom lanes, rang loud cries of falling shackles
thereof its golden path trod the majesty of our heroes past
and marched our feet, dispelling obeisance
rising onto the glory of Biafra to unite
with our destiny, that eternally endure.

Nnamdi Kanu
When history gathers its sands
on its golden sand
shall your name be etched a Biafran hero; a bellwether.