I found myself on the island of muddied waters, Buchi
The palm fronds waved their leaves with your name, Buchi
The sands held loose your breath, Buchi
There was no boat to take you back to the living, Buchi
Do you not hear your name rippling in the river, Buchi?
I am waiting for the blanket of darkness to remove its face, Buchi
I want to see you. I want the sea to bear your children, Buchi.
I want the wet pages of life to not lose your ink,Buchi
What are the joys left of our motherhood without you,Buchi?
Can your in-laws of death not accept the bride price and return you, Buchi?
I wish you not to be a slave girl, Buchi.
Listen to my voice, let no one tell you, you’re a Second Class Citizen, Buchi.
The kolanut has lost its taste so my libation is a foreign language, Buchi.
Buchi! Buchi! Come ma, please come and rest your head with peace.
She was like a celestial being when it comes to words,
Words that pierce deeper than the sharpest swords.
Sword, not seen but felt in the very dept of the heart.
Heart, the home of all emotions; joy, pain and hurt,
Hurt that weakens the senses and makes the being numb,
Numb to sweet feelings but endless pain tasted on the tongue,
Tongue designed to sing His praises now spit fire of pain and hurt.
A goddess of words,
Words with which she carved the face of pain, a woman,
Drowned in the ocean of anguish,
Breath only air clung with sorrow,
Wearing a cloak of pain,
Handicapped by cultural norms,
Stepping on egg shells and broken glasses,
As the weight of the world rests on her shoulders,
She still smiles a weary smile.
A typical life of a writer she lived,
Her works a faint picture of her pains she painted,
Abused in more ways than a mind could conceive,
With education, her dreams she hoped to achieve,
Wounded but unbroken.
She a voice for those who had theirs snatched by cultural bigotry,
Living just to satisfy the groins of men,
A voice daring women to live a fulfilled life,
Not as an object of pleasure,
Or victim of predicament.
She a light guiding souls,
Helping those lost find their paths,
Giving hope to those in despair,
An icon to be revered by generations to come.
Readers will read.
Your words are well cooked. Eaters will feed.
These writers will mourn. Your blood they will bleed.
The culture you planted grew this norm- It’s a seed.
The village trees gathered to see what you did.
They said it was urgent, but was there a need?
We’d trace these footprints and follow your lead.
These writers will mourn and blood they will bleed.
For it’s true, an elephant has fallen indeed.