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Wednesday, 15 March 2017



By Orji Munachimso
For Family Writers

Like a widow, I weep bitterly at night,
Tears on my cheeks, none to comfort me.
When I woke up in the morning,
i noticed my children are gone in the great beyond.
Now childless, I wail uncontrollably,
my heart bleeds,  my throat soars,
my eyes run dry with water.
All you that pass by,
my sorrow means nothing to you?
Take me home,  I want to go home!

I peacefully march down my streets,
Singing about my oppressions and suppressions,
only to meet my untimely death.
When my mouth  opens to talk,
i am forcefully imprisoned without charges,
i am being denied my Human Rights,
by men in uniform, heavily equipped,
poised to take away my life at every opportunity,
their preying eyes all around me.
Free me! Free me!  I want to go home!

I have all it takes to sustain me.
My fields are greenest,
yet I go far away for green pastures.
my soil is rich,
yet all my people sign, they seek bread.
They have given their treasures for food to relieve the soul.
For my enemies have invaded my land,
spread out their hands over my precious things.
Subdued, intimidated and frustrated,
i cry out in anger: I want to go home!

My Princes have become wanderers,
princesses have become slaves.
My Princes were purer than snow,
whiter than milk, more ruddy in body than rubies,
their appearance was of sapphire.
Now blacker than coal,
their skin cleaves to their bones,
withered like a dry stick.
What more is left of them?  What else can they wish for?
If not to go home?

I am into captivity.
I am not allowed to shine like I am supposed to.
Surrounded with so much hatred,
i am thrown into bitterness.
All my gates are desolate,
my virgins are afflicted,
the young and old fallen by the sword,
now lie on the ground.
They have slain them without pity,
i can't continue with these savages, take me home!

My flesh and skin is made old,
my bones are broken,
my skin is black like an oven because of terrible famine,
my neck is under persecution for I labour without rest.
The joy of my heart has ceased,
my dance turned into mourning,
my home doesn't look like home.
I seriously need rest from all these hurdles,
i want to go home!

My inheritance is turned to strangers,
my home to aliens.
Now my children are orphans,
mothers are widows.
"get me Biafra", said one of my dying sons;
Why won't the joy of my heart cease?
and my dance turn to mourning?
when I am a derision to my people,
and their song all day.
I will surely take you home my child!

I have fallen into the hands of the enemy,
none did help me.
I have been despised,
and my enemies prosper before my very eyes.
My children have drunk my water at a price,
my wood is sold unto them,
servants now rule over them.
The tongue of the nursing child clings to the roof of his mouth for thirst.
Don't ask me what I can do,
because I am taking them home where they rightfully belong.!

I am no longer welcomed in my home.
I stood at the borders pleading to be given a pass,
i am being denied access.
Now strangers occupying my borders,
how come all these strangers occupying my fatherland?
Oh! Chukwu Okike Abiama are you there?
Take me back to my ancestral home,
where I rightfully belong!

I am a nation,
endowed with natural resources,
as high as the highest mountain,
as deep as the deepest sea.
All in abundance,
my cities are beautifully cited,
filled with great people,
destined for great exploits.
Surely I am taking them home for safety.
I am the Land of the Rising Sun,

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