The Igbo Landing Poem by Boledi R Petja

They marched against the waves without fear of perishing. Theirs was a song of hope beyond limit. Floating in like a canoe lost at sea. Flaunting all their anxiety at a crack of a white man's whip. Resisting the shame projected their way by the white man's wit. Breathless was their way into freedom. It was the only way to attain peace. Returning home had a new meaning for their degraded image. No matter the route they took. Forward they went into the sea. Deeper and colder as the waves brushed through their hair. Weaker and weaker become the call of their estranged master. Out of terror he called. Hoping to send chills down the blackness of his slaves. Hoping to trap that little black nest and harvest all its eggs. Hoping to sit high on the old man's back and point out to the fields for the little boys to clear. Gone was the word of the day in the master's play grounds. The Igbo chose the waves as a way out from shame. Nothing was ever the same for the lone man. Home so foreign that the Igbo herd choose the sea. The master's whip was not enough to keep them at shore. They paddled with hands and balanced in a line of overthrow. Nothing was worse than the shame curved on their footprints. It was a story of destitute. A way of life to send the message. A story so deep no waggon could fill its holes of resistance. Their rebellion was not meant to cause confusion. Theirs was to nourish the sea with their tears. Tears meant to cleanse their souls off the misunderstandings They suffered. They screamed not because they were afraid of death. They screamed in silence so loud that the masters left behind made memoirs to honour their names. Their death become the awakening of the new dawn. A new sprout of seaweed meant to ignite hope in the minds of all those trapped by mental slavery.