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Sorrowful Tale (A poem)

By Erin B 06/02/2012 13:24:00

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Author: Okah Ewah Edede
Posted to the web: 2/21/2006 7:20:20 AM

At midnight noon,
from behind the cloud,
peeped the sad moon.

At the market place
where blood and sand
gave the earth an ugly face...

Here, people stole life
from the meek of the earth
who had nothing else to offer strife.

They have dealt us a blow,
Ndigbo, they have stolen our future
and hidden it in caves below

Where we cannot go forward,
and they could not go backward
for life have taken a new look
beyond the scope of wonder.

With a sense of shame the moon
handed over the recycled day
to the wise old sun.

As the morn awoke from slumber,
our mind goes comatose,
so as not to remember

The pains of the previous page
where religious urchins
left a trail of burning rage

In the streets up north,
while their brethens live
in secure peace down south.

The drapes of the lorry
where flung wide open
to expose this sorry story:

of mangled tangled infants;
ragly hagly mothers;
and males no longer parents.

Every friday the imam cries:
Heralding the great exodus
of Hope, Dream and, Struggles.

We lived in fright of friday.
We lived in dread of the imam.
We lived in fear everyday.

In our own country,
we lived as refugees.
At this, I had to cry

As she narrates her tales
of woes, injustice and death.
For her the pain never pales.

With choked voice she wailed:
'I once had a family' and she broked down and cried:

'The north swallowed my family,
to whom do I seek for succour,
is it from the rock?' she asked ignorantly.

'The rock?' I hissed sadly,
'the rock is the abode of tyrants,
my friend do not be silly.'

Yet still she ponder:
'where has equity hidden?
where was justice in this murder?'

It is sad, truly sad indeed,
that in the land of religion
we are still in dare need

Of the milk of harmony,
while the so called infidels
dances to humanistic symphony.

So dry your tears sorrowful child,
Though the hippo have struck,
when you see her be mild

And the old wise sun
will smile at you again.