On a tree,

I hear jungle drums;

speakers of the heart of ancient spirits,silent

at the boisterous waves of the West Sea.

The innocence of the sea is raped by the barrel of a gun

its bank now serve as a burial ground for slaves

and the market where women sold garri and beans

now turns to a commercial zone of skulls and bones.

On the tree,

I can see the lappa that kissed the twin milk goddess on my mother's chest

exchanged for a string of two cups hung on the shoulder

and my Father's goat horn exchanged for a piece of glass.

From the top of the tree,

I reach out to hold the blue sky

for light from the brutal hands of the boisterous waves of the West Sea.

Where is the birth of my heritage?

We were green, before we were burnt black. Green horns, in green meadows, where strong oakmen, cradle pregnant bee hives dripping with honey.

If we weren't so green, we would known , that we were happy. Then our shades were dark, the earth beneath our feet. And dark was good , even cool. There was light in our dark, a dark light, a soft glow. Yes, we could see in the dark light. For the light was ours. Then you came , with your gas fed glare, and burnt our irises black.

Glaring, our beautiful days (we had them year round) was a truth, without a stitch. We were never in the dark to begin with. Our lights, invisible to your strange eyes.

Was too dark for you , it seems.

Now we have to shade our eyes to see through the glare of your teeny. Now we see only our feet, and the leash by which we are led. A strange tongue, a slippery tongue, tells us where to put our feet. We trudge on, half blind and half deaf and half mute. Churning out generations vision impaired. .

Looking for their tongues, in mountain of strange tongues, all white in the glare the teeny. Now our greens are naked and our brown oakmen burnt black.

Our pregnant hives, harvested, it would seem, for the chief's barn, smells of honey. Our salvation, I know, not on the road we are led, but the rivers on both sides of it. A quick run, a jump, and swim ashore, our ebony shades in the fulcrum of rebirth, restored. And to Uhuru's sweet embrace, at last.

We were green, before we were burnt black. by a light , not fit for our shade.

©Ngozi Ubogu 2021.