2:11 AM
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2:11 AM 0 Comments
village boy
2:29 PM
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2:29 PM 0 Comments
The village
The cool breeze of the east tells
that I’m really home, to my root; to my heritage: the perfect dwelling that I
came from!
These were my stories, old from home, never a fault that things turned
this way, not even my imagination cheating on me; but my conscience fully awake
telling the stories.
This is the home where I came from,
and will say peace to my ancestors for our gods never left us, but so much
peace to the great-grand father that begot my father.
Little houses surrounded me telling the
wars that were fought, the story of a young aspiring champ who grew in a
village.
Every home became my house; I remember that story that transcends from
generations which says ‘a child would grow to become a man’ his village would
celebrate his success.
A story dwells in every home not
minding who told the stories, now I do remember the moon light plays, the fight
for who would wash the calabash, I would never forget my role which was to
pound the ofor seeds on the Eke days,
the lavishing joy when mama serves the cooked oha soup. The happiness when we eat together with father, which
celebrated unity eating in our invaluable shiny steel plates.
I won’t forget the Nkwo-ukwu days when papa heads the
elders meeting in the obi-ukwu, I
knew I was been molded to become a great leader, the happiness when I got a sip
of the palm wine from papa’s cup after every meeting.
This became my place of hope; a dwelling citadel of peace, a place where
age-grades creates a linage and kindred makes you a man.
Parents are seen as gods and holiness
becomes a daily pursuit.
I won’t forget how the last nmemeh was always talked about on the
way to the stream; I could remember mama adding some few words on our road to
the farm.
How could I forget papa’s stories of
ancestral deity, the okonko fraternity:
the Ekpe! These stories made me a
child of history.
The village expanded my knowledge
about adultery and the general perception of fornication, people see
fornication a taboo, and I realized the myth behind idolatry.
September become the month of the
great harvest, the new yam festival where everyone celebrated the harvest of
new yam not minding opinions of the church.
Home of nature’s prestige, where culture is adopted from birth and
issues are resolved by kings-men and corruption is confessed by nobody.
My home where ignorance becomes an
unperceived illiteracy, where our Ndi-Mba are seen as aliens and are specially
treated, I would never forget those foreign languages, how keen our ears were
to listen.
The village where festivity is
cherished and occasions are well celebrated, poverty is always accused a curse.
Never would I forget father's coronation as chief, the village where
coronation becomes a celebration and culture becomes a legacy.
I knew I would become a king; men
would grow to become kings and kings become legends.
Where the night gives fall to cool
breeze and sorrows are forgotten at dawn, and respect becomes a primary
encouragement in every clan and ego is a visible reproach; unity is perceived a
spoken goal and yet all would fight to protect an interest.
My home where technology is improvised and hope is never lost for new
creation.
My home where fire-woods become more
valuable than petrol and idolatry is always a religion. Hate is exhibited as
anger and is forgotten while the anger is over. Food is eaten in every kitchen
not minding who the preparer is.
Where peers grow to become uncommon
people yet disputes are resolved by elders and advice is spoken by every
parent.
Abortion becomes a taboo and
fornication becomes a common behavior of the ancestors. A place where trees are worshiped gods and water becomes a physical spirit in festivity.
The village where men write without pen
and yet their words are read in generations to come.
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