And I begin with a sigh of disgust:
This cannot happen in Akama.
Macabre drumbeats being beaten
Furiously
Dangerously
Clandestinely
And Akama is desecrated.
Nnem Ochie can no longer breathe
The air is fouled with the scent of ogiri Agadi-Nwanyi,
Dirty lucre and Janjaweed idiocies.
Have I not put a knife on the soul of kindred spirits?
And was Abame not wiped away?
Yes.
I hide in Okeofia at dusk
I beat the drum of Kata-Kata, the harbinger of all strife
I wash my palms with filthy oil lucre at dawn
I eat kola-nuts with elders and younglings at noon.
Yet, am I not the one suing for peace at Werima, and at Douglas House?
Offspring of Akama,
I hold ogene onye-oma-ekwe before cockcrow,
Bitten by the morning dew, and by igirigi ututu
It is my shrill quivering voice you hear:
Foreboding
Forewarning;
Bear in your strife-stricken bosoms
That Abame is no more, wiped out,
Forgotten
Yet, you sue for strife
Chei!
I fear
I fear for Mgbala Akama,
The desecrated land of my forebears.
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