My land

My hope

The embodiment and foundation of my future

The integral and most natural wealth of my past

The only thing left of the confident desire I had to nurture

The upholding of relations so vast

The only remnant of existence found in the tall trees that have grown behind my grandfather’s grave

Sheltered by his power and his generosity and the obvious benevolence he gave

But every great man makes a mistake

And if only we weren’t centuries apart I would have sat with pure wisdom and discussed the profound generation we were trying to make

Forget the interference of the evil earth as it swallowed his voice; his blood still runs through my veins

And his knowledge through my brain

Don’t disremember that the tributes in his biography weren’t in vain

But shiver at the similarity in our names

And the inquisitive lass this granddaughter became

Or the legacy in his pictures that have been framed

I talk about my land

Not the red mud that encompasses the main roads in Anambra 

Or the big Anglican church in Oba

Or the streets surrounding Isu

Or the local government settling pending issues

I talk about my soil

My story begins at the sight of the wall

Built from the heavy bags of cement my great-grandmother lifted before her fall

My story begins at the roots of the orange tree, my orange tree that gives fruit and shade

And in the hope that the trees at my backyard are filled with ripe plantain

And at the sound of the banana leaves whose flutterings sound like rain

And the complaint of dried leaves of the boldness of the wind to disturb them from where they had been lain

My story begins as I stand before the three-story building I am forced to face

My story begins at the dark ceramic tiles shielding grandfather’s resting place  

My foundation was derived from the secrets I haven’t been told

And the hidden tales that I’m sure will unfold

And the noiseless breeze that whispers deep gossip in my ears as it passes by

And the curiosity that questions the hardness of my soil and wonders how it became dry

My soil is angry

Not because of the interlocking that has mocked its originality

Or in the lack of culture when observing a traditional formality

Or in the sweet tongues of this generation that have gone numb to the nectar of the palm fruit

Or in the audacity of my kinsmen that claim to be from Akalaka’s roots

I know not what my soil is angry about; but it is my soil and I should know better

But how can I when I am oblivious to the past agreements and hidden letters?

Who angered my soil?

Be it a king or a peasant, you shall appease my soil

For even your lifetime isn’t time enough to build courage for the disrespect of my father’s toil

Who angered my soil?

Be it an indigene or an outcast, you shall appease my soil

For the beads of sweat that drip from your head will feed my soil with oil

I Love You

In English, we say I love you

But in Igbo we say, Afulu m gi na Anya

Literally translated to I will always see you

I will see you when the crowd is choking and I can barely breathe

I will see you even if my eyes are gorged out by those envious of our love

I will see you beyond your bare breasts and bead covered waists

I will see you in the deepest depths of the night

I see you, I will always see you

I see you so much that I see nothing else

Afulu m gi na anya

I see you my love, I love you