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.
