WORDS OF A DYING POET
(IN LIEU OF A BIRTHDAY MESSAGE)
I am meant to celebrate
My convocation, my birth date
But here am I in the sticky pool of my blood
Accompanied by decaying carcasses
Shattered skulls, mutilated bodies and broken limbs
I hear Irahub’s powerful voice scream in my daydream
“…kill them, slaughter them, finish them all up
and let’s take over their land…”
Tartiv can no longer feed herself
Shepherds plunder the food basket
They drink up the Benue River
Now, their cattle must drink up streams
Streams of Tiv blood to quench their thirst
“Is Tivland not grazing land”?
They scornfully ask as they trample, “Tar wam, tar wam, tar wam…”
All over our homesteads
As the genocide gets soaked in ill silence
Please, Ankyurche,
Take these words to Takuruku Anyamazenga
Tell him, Tartiv is under captivity
His once dreaded children are now a laughing stock
“Ayatutu ka uno…” is sterile and impotent
“Agbidye-gbough” now trample on his homestead
From Shitile to Tyoshin, Tombo to Ukum…
Agatu, Hiarev and Ipav are not spared
Between Irahub’s silence and his kith’s bullets
It’s hard to tell which is deadlier
Whisper to Takuruku Anyamazenga
that I also hear a few faint voices striving to be heard
Tell him to continue to invigorate them
Please, tell him to protect them from the wolves amongst us.
