Poetry

February 14, 2019 Poetry , POETRY / FICTION

UN photo

 

By

Opia-Enwemuche Maxwell Onyemaechi

 

 

 

Africa died here

 

 

Africa died here a long time ago

when she was plundered of seeds of promise,

her future was harvested at her prime

across coastal waters where memories fade quickly

and her smiles were extinguished beyond miles

while leaving tears behind celebrated with wicked cheers.

 

Africa died here a long time ago

when they suffocated her fresh air.

she was treated as an helpless animal

and led to the open for a free slaughter —

her future was served cold on a plate of anguish —

where maggots kept waving to the island of doom.

 

Africa died here a long time ago

when betrayal became her wonderful garment,

worn by brothers to fight dirty

and speak ill against her good will;

now the future was sold for mere cowries

and the venom of slavery became pandemic.

 

Africa died here a long time ago

when she was ferried away

to a distant land to forget her identity

as her glorious heritage was drowned in oceans

and her culture strangulated beneath slave ships

leaving her to feed on excreta along the journey;

a journey of no return become a piece of her history.

 

Africa died here a long time ago

when she was sold at Berlin Conference

in bits and pieces, she was dissected and  horribly desecrated

with her remains laden with lime,

leaving a crack that will struggle with time

and a future bleeding with poverty as souvenirs.

 

Africa is full of great men and women,

who live, breathe and wear greatness.

Africa is the kola nut broken for all

where every piece is scrambled for everyday.

Plundering is the name of the game

and every man wears his shame without a name.

 

Africa died here a long time ago

when colonialism suffocated her fresh air in tango.

 

 

 

 

 

Canticle of a Slave Girl

 

 

My memory was drowned that night

and useful identity erased forever.

 

I was led to a point of no return

passing through Badagry* on that day.

 

I dare not speak of history here

for my youth was exploited and explored

on wild plantations and dark huts.

 

My dignity was shredded without mercy

leaving a deflated hope floating on a pool of stench.

 

My memory was drowned that night

and I could not put up a fight.

 

 

 

*Badagry is a town in Nigeria where slave route thrived during the slave trading era.

 

 

 

 

 

Opia-Enwemuche Maxwell Onyemaechi

Opia-Enwemuche Maxwell Onyemaechi  is the author of The Oracle of Isieke. His poems have appeared in various anthologies or are forthcoming in Words, Rythym and Rhymes, Poetic Hunter, Pulse and Tuck Magazine. He writes from Umuahia, Nigeria. 

Editor review

3 Comments

  1. BolaFunmi February 16, at 19:51

    Such a soul gripping tale. Kudos Maximum!

    Reply
  2. Ada February 16, at 16:52

    Good one.. The boss

    Reply

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