Lament of the Flutes by Christopher Okigbo

TIDEWASH……Memories

fold-over-fold free-furrow

mingling old tunes with new.

Tidewash.....Ride me

memories, astride on firm

saddle, wreathed with white

lillies & roses of blood.....



Sing to the rustic flute:

Sing a new note...



Where are the Maytime flowers,

where the roses? What will the

Watermaid bring at sundown,

a garland? A handful of tears?

Sing to the rustic flute:

Sing a new note...



Comes Dawn

gasping thro worn lungs,

Day breathes,

panting like torn horse -



We follow the wind to the fields

Bruising grass leafblade and corn...



Sundown: I draw in my egg head.

Night falls

smearing sore bruises with Sloan's

boring new holes in old sheets -



We hear them, the talkative pines,

And nightbirds and woodnymphs afar off ...



Shall I answer their call,

creep on my underself

out of my snug hole, out of my shell

to the rocks and the fringe for cleansing?

Shall I offer to Idoto

my sandhouse and bones,

then write no more snow-patch?



Sing to the rustic flute.

Sing a new note.

Africa By David Diop

Africa, my Africa
Africa of proud warriors in ancestral savannahs
Africa of whom my grandmother sings
On the banks of the distant river
I have never known you
But your blood flows in my veins
Your beautiful black blood that irrigates the fields
The blood of your sweat
The sweat of your work
The work of your slavery
Africa, tell me Africa
Is this you, this back that is bent
This back that breaks
Under the weight of humiliation
This back trembling with red scars
And saying yes to the whip under the midday sun
But a grave voice answers me
Impetuous child that tree, young and strong
That tree over there
Splendidly alone amidst white and faded flowers
That is your Africa springing up anew
Springing up patiently, obstinately
Whose fruit bit by bit acquires
The bitter taste of liberty.

By David Diop

Purpose of this blog

It’s the simple desire to type ‘Lenrie Peter’s – We have come home’ in Google, just as I did “Martin Luther King – I have a Dream’ and have at least two hyperlinks to the full version of the poem I fell in love with during my senior secondary days.

It’s the simple curiousity to find a read, fact-based and free of bias on why traces of palpable tribalism still linger in the hearts of my parents and their generation who fought and were fought against during the Nigerian Civil War.

It's the simple necessity to evolve from molten folk lores, Chinese whispers and paperback publications, to the diverse revolution of the Jet-Age.

Maybe it’s even a sudden wave and personal awakening to a true sense of patriotism (and perharps Pan-Africanism) at whose root lies genuine concern and a desire to preserve history in one simple way:

Documentation.



This work is dedicated to Professor (Mrs.) Aize Obayan, Miss Adebayo and Mr. Michael Odelola. Thank you for reproducing your passions for art in me.