Before Your Grave Poem by *Tony Cemaluk Egbuonu

Ugogbuzuo...
Ugogbuzuo...
Ugogbuzuo...

Ugogbuzuo, my mother.
It is me... greeting.
Can't you respond again,
answering me with deafening graveyard silence?
It is me, Antho.

Ofu ntu nwai i ji atu na ume,
your soul-soothing, sole son, Antho.
Ofu nkpuru anya i ji isi ugwo iji ahu uzo,
your sole sight-organ for seeing,
now heavily indebted to blindness.

Ofu nkpulu akwu ana efu na ite mmili oku? Mba nu.
Can a sole palm nut disappear in boiling water? Not at all.

I am here before a long heap of red earth.
Where are you, biko?
Don't tell me this is your grave?
Is that so...?

Anyway, in your words:
89 is not a joke. It is not easy.
89 is not 89 days, not 89 weeks, not 89 months...
but 89 years. For a mother of seven plus children?

Look at me, Mama Antho. Can you see any tears?
I told you I won't shed tears when you go fulfilled.
So, no tears.
I remain your sole strong son.
I am not wailing. I am not weeping.
I am not sorrowing. Just sobbing.
Because a mother like you is irreplaceable, inestimable, unforgettable, forever missed.
It is well. You lived well and long in good health till you left.

Did you see him?
...Ezemalukwuo?
He must have aged over there.

My regards,
Say me well to him.
Tell him I have come of age,
older than he was here.

I am 'Antho' bwa gi na ya.
I am Tony, your son and his son.
I am Tony Cemaluk.
Cemaluk.

The grave is silent. But the Dynasty speaks.