Wandering Man Poem by akachukwu chukwuemeka ( akabeks)

Am a wanderer
Searching for my essence,
The root of my fathers are sweet, the
Fruits are bitter,

Eye must set with the sun,
My feet walked the path of the preacher
And the dibia,
But their songs came from a punctured throat.
They grow fat and oily; the followers grow thin and dry,
Their medicine is made potent by our bill,
Their theatrics are contrived,

Am a wanderer
My fathers have no written records of their fathers
Generations of oral wisdom are setting faster than
The eastern sun
While we are sold away to white man's religion,
They say ours' is the way to hell
But they carry the oracles to their lands
And call them artefacts,

They perform appeasements to our gods
To understand their ways and abandoned us with
The book about a messiah that will come again,

Am a wanderer
Eye must trace my roots,
My grandfather married nine wives, his elder brother thirteen,
The younger one married six and my uncle, three.
Whiteman's religion shackled my father, and he ended with one,
Until another appears, eye wander, and seek.
They said theirs' was a great lineage
Of abundant wealth and peacefulness,
Without education, all was wasted seeking
The tender waist of young maidens,

Am a wanderer
I search not the abundant wives of my ‘fathers',
Eye seek the wisdom in the peace they lived.


©20/09/2010