He was thirteen,
Not man, not child,
Palm-wine still fresh in his father's gourd
When the tree took him.
1946.
Grandfather climbed to honor an in-law's Ozo,
Fell as he lived — providing for others.
Many wives, many children,
And a boy of thirteen left standing:
Onwurah Nwoye Egbuonu.
Then custom entered the compound.
The Di Okpala came,
Already a man, already blessed with means,
And by ikuchi nwanyi,
Took his father's wives
To keep the family together,
They said.
Allowed.
Customary.
Lawful.
But who explains law
To a thirteen-year-old heart?
Brother Today,
Father Tomorrow,
Allowed Anomaly.
Yesterday, he called him Brother.
Today, the same doorway,
The same wrapper,
The same voice that once called him Nwanne,
Now answers to another title
In his mother's hut.
Mother still cooks,
But not as before.
Mother still there,
But not as alone.
Where does a boy put that pain
When culture says do not cry?
He swallowed it.
And the swallowed knife
Became backbone.
That is why later,
His title would mean:
If a king speaks truth and justice, I agree,
If not, I never will.
Because at thirteen he learned:
Custom can wound,
Elders can be wrong,
Truth must be defended,
Even if it costs life.
He carried that silence
To his own marriage to Cecilia,
To his own children,
To planting season 1974
When at 41 he too died defending truth.
Brother Today,
Father Tomorrow,
Allowed Anomaly —
But the seed survived.
The wound became witness.
From the thirteen-year-old of 1946,
To the forty-one-year-old who fell in planting season,
To the six-year-old who became harvest,
To the lineage that will never lose both —
The anomaly is no longer allowed to repeat.
CEMALUK | ODNNNN
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem