Diplomatic Genocide 1 Poem by Emeka GOC

With Mazi Nnamdi Kanu still in prison
Convicted by a none existent law
Like in the wood age of primitivity
By British friends oil and gas align Nigeria
A British citizen striped of the allure of being British
Because he spoke, Just speaking the truth
A fundamental human right not defendable by the

The night bled from Sixty-Seven to Seventy,
A slow, choking knot tied around the throat of the East.
The Nigeria-Biafra War, not just a clash of steel,
But a weaponized silence called starvation.
Three million souls fading into the dirt,
While the world watched through a lens,
And these names refused to look away.

The EU and Finland has soiled their hands
With the collaboration, imprisoned Simon Ekpa
The diasporic designated prime minister
On a rubber stamp Nigerian judiciary
In the blood oil and liquidities blood gas
Coming from Imo state, Again Biafra
triggering the clause of diabolic diplomacy
No justice, no fairness, no human rights

Brave son of the soil, Chinua Achebe,
Who laid down the fiction of Things Fall Apart
To write the brutal reality of the Biafra Broadcasting Service.
An envoy with a pen,
Carrying the screams of blockaded children
To ears that refused to hear.

Followed by Wole Soyinka stepped into the smoke of Enugu,
Carrying a fragile peace to Odumegwu Ojukwu.
No weapons. Just words.
The price? Twenty-two months in a concrete box,
Solitary confinement trying to break a Nobel mind,
But the truth doesn't dissolve in the dark.

Then came the doctor who shed his imperial skin.
Dr. Akanu Ibiam; once Sir Francis
He looked at the KBE medal from Queen Elizabeth
In hand saw the reflection of British-supplied bullets.
He stripped off the Western name,
Flung the knighthood back across the Atlantic, and declared:
"I cannot be a Queen's knight and watch the same kingdom kill my people."

In London, the rhythm caught the spark.
great John Lennon took his MBE medal,
Wrapped it in a puckish, biting truth,
And sent it back to the palace.
A rockstar's middle finger to the Crown for
Britain's bloody hands in the 'Nigeria-Biafra thing.

'But some protests consumed the flesh.
On the manicured lawns of the United Nations,
beautiful Bruce Mayrock,
Just twenty years old,
Carried a cardboard sign:
"You must stop genocide."
Then he became the fire.
A American student burning like a sun in New York,

So the world couldn't pretend it was too dark to see.
And inside the blockade,
Where the planes braved the anti-aircraft fire,
Young French doctors watched the Red Cross
fold its hands in neutrality.
"Silence is complicity, " they whispered.

They broke their vows.
They spoke the truth.
And from the ashes of that starvation
They built Médecins Sans Frontières
Doctors Without Borders.

They didn't stop the war,
But they stopped the forgetting.
Six names. One scar on history.
A reminder that when a state chooses to starve,
the human spirit chooses to scream.

Unending consequences of the diplomatic genocide
Unyielding responses to unequalled injustices
Hatched and delivered by successive British white halls
The eggs of subtle poisonous king cobra
They turns back and bite the maker
They usually turn back, like criminals
They will certainly return to the scene of the crime