We search in vain for the home we lost. The majestic landscape that was trampled by White traitors, carrying nothing but bibles and the language to change us, remains the stoic evidence of the unspeakable damage, that continues to permeate with resounding rage.
The smoke-filled air of swirling akara and puff puff are the treasures that leave a scent that can’t be washed away with the admission into lands far away — that offer traitorous refuge from a criminally soiled heritage.
How do you say: “I’m outraged by the dishonest tactics of British invaders who robbed me of the privilege of my native tongue” — in Igbo?
The tragedy of anointed polluters, is the incalculable loss that leaves ghosts in the smelly gutters, that are only meters away from the relics of oppression — straddled in the blades of tree branches and arches of drunken monuments — on street corners that bear the names of decorated soldiers who stole to preserve the riches of a nefarious kingdom.
We can’t mourn what we never had, but rather spend an eternity searching for the lost transcripts that contained the wholeness of tradition before it was snatched away — and mercilessly chopped into the pieces of mental imprisonment that carries no option for parole.
The indignant generations, spawned from the habits of reckless abandonment, from the primal cries of comfort, that tried in vain to code the grounds with the warrior dance to freedom — are performing the deeds of recognition that curse with multiple personalities and the lure into the whirlwind of denial.
The resources of our contentment are used to starve and torment well-placed natives, as countries powered by White colonialists perfect the methods of extraction by supplying oil-slick swimming pools, and deadly pollution that forces homes to collapse — after the rigging from lit-up vessels disappear into the cloudy darkness.
Dead souls that interchange with bodies that are sold into slavery, or drowned by the angry sea that won’t surrender to the humaneness of a safe passage — will guard the incoming casualties that try in vain to flee the harshness of being, that contains a dying nation on the verge of extinction.
For those who have made it above ground, the distance that separates from the diseased fibers of sunken debris with the airborne virus of systemized negligence, that will not be thwarted by an antidote that can’t be conceived from acute awareness — coerce with the white and green valiance of personalized scrapbooks of reality.
From the fantasy lounges of Instagram to the publicized outlets of expression that glosses over the stench of inherited chaos, that suffocates the mirrors of truth that manage to pass through the hazy tunnels of over-populated apps — we’re undoubtedly savvy enough to present gold-plated falsehoods for the glory of trends and the setters seated in high-up places.
Nigeria, the lost country, where tribal decorations are embedded in the valves of bloody massacres, and the propped masters from the past, return to hold the present hostage with the blessing of a weary and abused population.
How long must we search for what we never had, and when will we recover what was taken, with a steely slowness that played out like the firing squad in slow motion, blowing body bits into the fiery air, as bone matter converts to the materials that will keep God’s chosen nations in the position of supremacy.
Independence Day was the historical farce that paraded as the track in a soundtrack of emancipation that eventually birthed the cash crop of normalized dysfunction for White oppressors — who count on the roster of military coups, civil wars, and the mandated corruption that guarantees the allegiance of governmental parasites — who leech off of the vulnerable for the security of Swiss bank accounts.
The war within us is carried everywhere, and the religion of unwavering patriotism will alway be our undoing.
Nigeria, the lost country is found in the resolute of manic tendencies that unite our acceptance of what was taken without permission, and with the bribery of English tea with biscuits in a gated heaven — that won’t grant entry to a people that succumbed to the weight of the crown.
Where is the country with the rolling hills, swaddling greenery in the plentiful forrest, and the mistiness swarming the skies as the direction to our ancestral tidings are scribed in the ledger of reserved memory that marks our charitable union.
We are lost, we are found, we are destroyed, we are restored, we are mighty, we are meek, we are hungry, we are fulfilled, we are sorrowful, we are joyful, we are defeated, we are victorious, we are in slumber, we are awaken, we are heavy, we are light, we are dark, we are bright, we are blind, we are sight.
We are dead, we are risen.
We are Nigeria.