Prologue 1966 absentminded our thoughtless days sat at dire controls and played indolently slowly downward in remote subterranean shaft a diamond-tipped drill point crept closer to residual chaos to rare artesian hatred that once squirted warm blood in God's face confirming His first disappointment in Eden Nsukka, November 19, 1971 Benin Road Speed is violence Power is violence Weight violence The butterfly seeks safety in lightness In weightless, undulating flight But at a crossroads where mottled light From old trees falls on a brash new highway Our separate errands collide I come power-packed for two And the gentle butterfly offers Itself in bright yellow sacrifice Upon my hard silicon shield. Mango Seedling Through glass windowpane Up a modern office block I saw, two floors below, on wide-jutting concrete canopy a mango seedling newly sprouted Purple, two-leafed, standing on its burst Black yolk. It waved brightly to sun and wind Between rains-daily regaling itself On seed yams, prodigally. For how long? How long the happy waving From precipice of rainswept sarcophagus? How long the feast on remnant flour At pot bottom? Perhaps like the widow Of infinite faith it stood in wait For the holy man of the forest, shaggy-haired Powered for eternal replenishment. Or else it hoped for Old Tortoise's miraculous feast On one ever recurring dot of cocoyam Set in a large bowl of green vegetables- This day beyond fable, beyond faith? Then I saw it Poised in courageous impartiality Between the primordial quarrel of Earth And Sky striving bravely to sink roots Into objectivity, midair in stone. I thought the rain, prime mover To this enterprise, someday would rise in power And deliver its ward in delirious waterfall Toward earth below. But every rainy day Little playful floods assembled on the slab, Danced, parted round its feet, United again, and passed. It went from purple to sickly green Before it died. Today I see it still- Dry, wire-thin in sun and dust of the dry months- Headstone on tiny debris of passionate courage. Aba, 1968 Pine Tree in Spring (for Leon Damas) Pine tree flag bearer of green memory across the breach of a desolate hour Loyal tree that stood guard alone in austere emeraldry over Nature's recumbent standard Pine tree lost now in the shade of traitors decked out flamboyantly marching back unabashed to the colors they betrayed Fine tree erect and trustworthy what school can teach me your silent, stubborn fidelity? The Explorer Like a dawn unheralded at midnight it opened abruptly before me-a rough circular clearing, high cliffs of deep forest guarding it in amber-tinted spell A long journey's end it was though how long and from where seemed unclear, unimportant; one fact alone mattered now-that body so well preserved which on seeing I knew had brought me there The circumstance of death was vague but a floating hint pointed to a disaster in the air elusively But where, if so, the litter of violent wreckage? That rough-edged gypsum trough bearing it like a dead chrysalis reposing till now in full encapsulation was broken by a cool hand for this lying in state. All else was in order except the leg missing neatly at knee joint even the white schoolboy dress immaculate in the thin yellow light; the face in particular was perfect having caught nor fear nor agony at the fatal moment. Clear-sighted with a clarity rarely encountered in dreams my Explorer-Self stood a little distant but somewhat fulfilled; behind him a long misty quest: unanswered questions put to sleep needing no longer to be raised. Enough in that trapped silence of a freak dawn to come face-to-face suddenly with a body I didn't even know I lost. Agostinho Neto Neto, were you no more Than the middle one favored by fortune In children's riddle; Kwame Striding ahead to accost Demons; behind you a laggard third As yet unnamed, of twisted fingers? No! Your secure strides Were hard earned. Your feet Learned their fierce balance In violent slopes of humiliation; Your delicate hands, patiently Groomed for finest incisions, Were commandeered brusquely to kill, Your melodious voice to battle cry. Perhaps your family and friends Knew a merry flash cracking the gloom We see in pictures but I prefer And will keep the darker legend. For I have seen how Half a millennium of alien rape And murder can stamp a smile On the vacant face of the fool, The sinister grin of Africa's idiot-kings Who oversee in obscene palaces of gold The butchery of their own people. Neto, I sing your passing, I, Timid requisitioner of your vast Armory's most congenial supply. What shall I sing? A dirge answering The gloom? No, I will sing tearful songs Of joy; I will celebrate The Man who rode a trinity Of awesome fates to the cause Of our trampled race! Thou Healer, Soldier, and Poet! Poems About War The First Shot That lone rifle-shot anonymous in the dark striding chest-high through a nervous suburb at the break of our season of thunders will yet steep its flight and lodge more firmly than the greater noises ahead in the forehead of memory. A Mother in a Refugee Camp No Madonna and Child could touch Her tenderness for a son She soon would have to forget. . . . The air was heavy with odors of diarrhea, Of unwashed children with washed-out ribs And dried-up bottoms waddling in labored steps Behind blown-empty bellies. Other mothers there Had long ceased to care, but not this one: She held a ghost-smile between her teeth, And in her eyes the memory Of a mother's pride. . . . She had bathed him And rubbed him down with bare palms. She took from their bundle of possessions A broken comb and combed The rust-colored hair left on his skull And then-humming in her eyes-began carefully to part it. In their former life this was perhaps A little daily act of no consequence Before his breakfast and school; now she did it Like putting flowers on a tiny grave. Christmas in Biafra (1969) This sunken-eyed moment wobbling down the rocky steepness on broken bones slowly fearfully to hideous concourse of gathering sorrows in the valley will yet become in another year a lost Christmas irretrievable in the heights its exploding inferno transmuted by cosmic distances to the peacefulness of a cool twinkling star. . . . To death-cells of that moment came faraway sounds of other men's carols floating on crackling waves mocking us. With regret? Hope? Longing? None of these, strangely, not even despair rather distilling pure transcendental hate . . . Beyond the hospital gate the good nuns had set up a manger of palms to house a fine plastercast scene at Bethlehem. The Holy Family was central, serene, the Child Jesus plump wise-looking and rose-cheeked; one of the magi in keeping with legend a black Othello in sumptuous robes. Other figures of men and angels stood at well-appointed distances from the heart of the divine miracle and the usual cattle gazed on in holy wonder. . . . Poorer than the poor worshippers before her who had paid their homage with pitiful offering of new aluminum coins that few traders would take and a frayed five-shilling note she only crossed herself and prayed open-eyed. Her infant son flat like a dead lizard on her shoulder his arms and legs cauterized by famine was a miracle of its kind. Large sunken eyes stricken past boredom to a flat unrecognizing glueyness moped faraway motionless across her shoulder. . . . Now her adoration over she turned him around and pointed at those pretty figures of God and angels and men and beasts- a spectacle to stir the heart of a child. But all he vouchsafed was one slow deadpan look of total unrecognition and he began again to swivel his enormous head away to mope as before at his empty distance. . . . She shrugged her shoulders, crossed herself again, and took him away. Air Raid It comes so quickly the bird of death from evil forests of Soviet technology A man crossing the road to greet a friend is much too slow. His friend cut in halves has other worries now than a friendly handshake at noon. Biafra, 1969 First time Biafra Was here, we're told, it was a fine Figure massively hewn in hardwood. Voracious white ants Set upon it and ate Through its huge emplaced feet To the great heart abandoning A furrowed, emptied scarecrow. And sun-stricken waves came and beat crazily About its feet eaten hollow Till crashing facedown in a million fragments It was floated gleefully away To cold shores-cartographers alone Marking the coastline Of that forgotten massive stance. In our time it came again In pain and acrid smell Of powder. And furious wreckers Emboldened by half a millennium Of conquest, battening On new oil dividends, are now At its black throat squeezing Blood and lymph down to Its hands and feet Bloated by quashiokor. Must Africa have To come a third time? An "If" of History Just think, had Hitler won his war the mess our history books would be today. The Americans flushed by verdict of victory hanged a Japanese commander for war crimes. A generation later an itching finger pokes their ribs: We've got to hang our Westmoreland for bloodier crimes in Viet Nam! But everyone by now must know that hanging takes much more than a victim no matter his load of manifest guilt. For even in lynching a judge of sorts is needed- a winner. Just think if Hitler had gambled and won what chaos the world would have known. His implacable foe across the Channel would surely have died for war crimes. And as for H. Truman, the Hiroshima villain, well! Had Hitler won his war de Gaulle would have needed no further trial for was he not condemned already by Paris to die for his treason to France? . . . Had Hitler won, Vidkun Quisling would have kept his job as Prime Minister of Norway, simply by Hitler winning. Remembrance Day Your proclaimed mourning your flag at half-mast your solemn face your smart backward step and salute at the flowered foot of empty graves your glorious words-none, nothing will their spirit appease. Had they the choice they would gladly have worn for you the same stricken face gladly flown your droopéd flag spoken your tremulous eulogy-and been alive. . . . Admittedly you suffered too. You lived wretchedly on all manner of gross fare; you were tethered to the nervous precipice day and night; your groomed hair lost gloss, your smooth body roundedness. Truly you suffered much. But now you have the choice of a dozen ways to rehabilitate yourself. Pick any one of them and soon you will forget the fear and hardship, the peril on the edge of the chasm. . . . The shops stock again a variety of hair dyes, the lace and the gold are coming back; so you will regain lost mirth and girth and forget. But when, how soon, will they their death? Long, long after you forget they turned newcomers again before the hazards and rigors of reincarnation, rude clods once more who once had borne the finest scarifications of the potter's delicate hand now squashed back into primeval mud, they will remember. Therefore fear them! Fear their malice your fallen kindred wronged in death. Fear their blood feud; tremble for the day of their visit! Flee! Flee! Flee your guilt palaces and cities! Flee lest they come to ransack your place and find you still at home at the crossroad hour. Pray that they return empty-handed that day to nurse their red-hot hatred for another long year. . . . Your glorious words are not for them nor your proliferation in a dozen cities of the bronze heroes of Idumota. . . . Flee! Seek asylum in distant places till a new generation of heroes rise in phalanges behind their purified child-priest to inaugurate a season of atonement and rescue from fingers calloused by heavy deeds the tender rites of reconciliation A Wake for Okigbo For whom are we searching? For whom are we searching? For Okigbo we are searching! Nzomalizo! Has he gone for firewood, let him return. Has he gone to fetch water, let him return. Has he gone to the marketplace, let him return. For Okigbo we are searching. Nzomalizo! For whom are we searching? For whom are we searching? For Okigbo we are searching! Nzomalizo! Has he gone for firewood, may Ugboko not take him. Has he gone to the stream, may Iyi not swallow him! Has he gone to the market, then keep from him you Tumult of the marketplace! Has he gone to battle, please Ogbonuke step aside for him! For Okigbo we are searching! Nzomalizo! They bring home a dance, who is to dance it for us? They bring home a war, who will fight it for us? The one we call repeatedly, there's something he alone can do It is Okigbo we are calling! Nzomalizo! Witness the dance, how it arrives The war, how it has broken out But the caller of the dance is nowhere to be found The brave one in battle is nowhere in sight! Do you not see now that whom we call again And again, there is something he alone can do? It is Okigbo we are calling! Nzomalizo! The dance ends abruptly The spirit dancers fold their dance and depart in midday Rain soaks the stalwart, soaks the two-sided drum! The flute is broken that elevates the spirit The music pot shattered that accompanies the leg in its measure Brave one of my blood! Brave one of Igbo land! Brave one in the middle of so much blood! Owner of riches in the dwelling place of spirit Okigbo is the one I am calling! Nzomalizo! In memory of the poet Christopher Okigbo (1932-1967) Translated from the Igbo by Ifeanyi Menkiti After a War After a war life catches desperately at passing hints of normalcy like vines entwining a hollow twig; its famished roots close on rubble and every piece of broken glass. Irritations we used to curse return to joyous tables like prodigals home from the city. . . . The meter man serving my maiden bill brought a friendly face to my circle of sullen strangers and me smiling gratefully to the door. After a war we clutch at watery scum pulsating on listless eddies of our spent deluge. . . . Convalescent dancers rising too soon to rejoin their circle dance our powerless feet intent as before but no longer adept contrive only half-remembered eccentric steps. After years of pressing death and dizzy last-hour reprieves we're glad to dump our fears and our perilous gains together in one shallow grave and flee the same rueful way we came straight home to haunted revelry. Christmas 1971 Excerpted from Collected Poems by Chinua Achebe All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
