Skip to main content

Ohamadike | Stefn Sylvester Anyatonwu


POEM 257: OHAMADIKE (For Nnamdi Kanu)


Cowards kept mum in the face of tyranny
You didn't.
Indecisive folks played hide and seek,
You didn't.
Elders 'so called' ate fat and belched loudly,
You didn't.

The ignorant ones may condemn you
and say all manner of ill about you
but my pen, like a book of remembrance,
shall remember you
and write all manner of good about you.

You're an embodiment of courage and dogged activism.
You dared 'integrity' with harsh truth.
You stepped on sacred toes and ruffled hallowed feathers.
You revived a dying dream and made us love this sleep.
You defied boundaries
and commanded an army of united purpose.

True, you had your flaws.
Isn't it human to be flawed?
True, you were radically unbearable.
But who heeds to the plea of a roadside beggar?
You showed the world, we are not pleading to be respected in a nation that was supposed to be ours.
You made it known we are demanding a right wrongly stripped from us.

Today, I remember you and harmless unarmed young men
who danced in the market square with pythons,
but never returned with telltales
of animal invasion and human inhumanity.

Ohamadike, even though the lady I love
frowns at the mention of your name
I shall loud it on rooftops
until the son rise again.

Ohamadike, even though religion says 'hush padre's son!'
I'll hit hard my gong
until the deaf shall hear and run

Ohamadike, I know not where you are,
here or there.
I know not how you are,
dead or alive.
But I know where we are,
in the land of senile grandpa,
whose one and only source of pleasure,
is the oppression of my unarmed tribesmen
and protection of Fulani 'headsmen'

Ohamadike, Igbo si "onye aghala nwanne ya"
for this reason, machefuo gi.
I'll drop my quill on this verse
and hope your father, the king,
is safe and sound.

#365DaysOfPoetry
#NnamdiKanu
#Biafra
#PythonDance
#Pengician
#SSA



Enjoyed reading? Commenting is now easy. Please help my blog grow by leaving a comment and sharing with friends. Thank you!

Comments

Popular posts from this blog

Fiction | The Tripod Effect

THE TRIPOD EFFECT The Smiths were unable to conceive children and decided to use a surrogate father to start their family. On the day the surrogate father was to arrive, Mr. Smith kissed his wife and said, "I'm off. The man should be here soon" Half an hour later, just by chance a door- to-door baby photographer rang the doorbell, hoping to make a sale.  "Good morning, madam. I've come to...." "Oh, no need to explain. I've been expecting you," Mrs. Smith cut in. "Really?" the photographer asked. "Well, good. I've made a speciality of babies"  "That's what my husband and I had hoped. Please come in and have a seat"  After a moment, she asked, blushing, "Well, where do we start?"  "Leave everything to me. I usually try two in the bathtub, one on the couch and perhaps a couple on the bed. Sometimes the living room floor is fun too; you can really spread out!" "Bathtub, living room floo...

The Curve And Colors Of Hate | Uwen Precious Ogban

The Curve And Colors Of Hate When the evening news had broken Father spoke with a tone of pain and anger “Nigeria is a whore,” And my mother agreed Painting sensual scenes giving you pleasure of what looks like a garden that hides a landmine. And how trying to walk through it becomes slippery A journey asking for crimson libations, full of fractures and ‘Had I knowns’ while you looked over the fence for greener  pastures Her sighs spoke of a menu full of thrills but you are served double horrors She, Nigeria, abhors you later on when it relinquishes you of value, Truly, she is an old ‘Whore’ My Father picked it from there, “Nigeria gets hard as rock” Wants of men despised Sullen moods recorded in poems, speeches, and events, snubbed For as long as it makes sultry suplex’s on a comfortable ring – Nigeria is satisfied “Son, Nigeria is you, your mum and I” Guilty to a fault Pained by happenings that come with fire and brimstone Let loose from bellies that should hold  patriotis...

Featured Poem: Slavery In Africa - by Uwen Precious Ogban

SLAVERY IN AFRICA We believe they rowed their boats of tumults into our region; carrying with them bags of conundrums, while we drummed our drums and jollied to their, intonation. The way they dressed, the way they addressed us Made us mime to the harmony and yearns in their speeches of a dawn to civility and hale: that was a start of the course of slavery in Africa. We still thought they were our brothers, because our chiefs rolled floridly with their proposals While we were mockingly disposed of In the field, or given to bespoken tailors as apprehends; as helps; in servitude; ‘posed to carry out orders as the come in flicks. We became babies in our own motherland we became cartage of their foreign plans. We cleared our huts so that they could find comfy and build on our strengths draining our tears as they wryly whipped us on our backs. Their wisdom their prowess They used to molest And we gazed in cluelessness Cause we still didn’t see it as slavery then – but as pain, so enjoyable....