Who will be the hearers of this tragedy?

The children who have a dark cloud,

Or the mothers who cannot find river water to cook dinner.

Would the fathers whose hairs have turned grey

Tell this tale for which many have gone

And joined their ancestors to the great beyond.

The farmland produced food enough for everybody.

And the grasses were green.

The Chiefs and subjects alike drank palm wine in the moonlight,

As the daughters danced to the beats of the drums.

Sons of the land, wrestled for the respect of the elders.

And the gods of the tribe were appeased with meat sacrifice.

They plunged the ground to plant a crop so strange.

Alas! They seemed to have sowed their seeds

For they jubilated with beers and champagnes.

For whatever reason the joy they wondered at these farmers with iron rigs.

A moon passed and then came the order,

That they leave their huts for a settlement farther

From their farms and their years.

This kind of planting they have not seen,

At Iloibiri the harvest started; the reaping of the storage of years.

In black form that brought the Whiteman’s cowries.

As the milking of the land continued the people asked

For a little parcel of land to farm.

In a land owned by their forefathers,

In an environment their generation past dug wells.

 
Each setting of the sun brought a new palaver for them,

Farther they were chased, away from their inheritance and farmlands.

The army with sticks of death stood as Jerichos,

And the rulers would say, ‘we have more than we can spend''.

Days turned weeks; weeks to months and months to years,

And this harvest will never stop.

Their plantations became many throughout their land.

 
From Warri to Bonny, from Oron to Brass.

The sucking of nature's minerals continued.

The white men came for to them it was a feast.

Soon the fishes left the waters for it became black,

Their seedlings could no longer germinate in the soil

For the humus thereof was gone.

And the companies looked the other way.

 
The children became lean and daughters took to the curtains,

So that body and soul remain together.

The Chiefs of the land sent emissaries from the people

To demand a token from the government for their woes.

A little shilling to repair their wells, a measure of manure for their crops.

Assurances only the rulers would give,

''Tomorrow I will come '' they promise.

And the companies toasted to another oil well and a spillage.

 
For the prices to go down and their ship sail they are concerned,

Whoever person dies, whichever river darkens they don't care.

For the bribes are given to governors of the region,

In sack cloths it is carried into the inner chambers of the masters.

The inhumanity continued against the communities in the Niger-Delta.

The Northern Generals in power smiled amidst their sufferings,

'Ranka Dede' they greet in their meetings

Where hot pepper-soup and plenty of beer are consumed.

Bought with the money gotten from the trade of the resources of the delta.

“Lay a pipe from Port-Harcourt to Kaduna ,

Let there be a refinery in the desert and damn the cost.

For we are born to rule in this land.

Build Abuja with the wealth of the people,

But Nay! Give them no schools,

Let their rivers be plagued and their fishes die.

Let their children go hungry,

For we are the true sons of Allah.”

And the white men said Aye!

 
He saw it all as a child and as a youth

As a father he said no, my children will see the light.

With his feather and his ink, smoking his pipe,

He started a journey to tell the truth about Ogoni.

The world heard, Britain watched in silence.

The West, known for their environmental rights,

Turned deaf to his wails.

A noise they assumed was made, not loud enough to reach Washington .

When they want to talk about his cries they whisper

That their interest not be bruised so their feasting doesn’t stop.

For they need more than Oliver Twist only they don't ask.

 
Again he wrote, his pen mightier than their voice,

That they clean the rivers of the spills

That their oil harvests bring.

But who will dare their SHELL,

Can the mother crucify the baby?

He got his people and MOSOP was born.

For survival they strived that their rivers be,

That their children have education and their sons jobs.

 
For that he was caught, along with 8 and tried.

And the sentence of death was pronounced

By a kangaroo court of soldiers dressed in khaki.

Along they were taken to the hangman's gallows,

To face the penalty for crying out loud.

He asked for his pipe and his pen

For he believed in life after death.

And they were hanged!

By the regime of the dictator

And buried him in an unmarked grave to hide the truth.

 
Only then did the white men leave the rulers table,

"Tyrant”, they cried, why kill Ken? They asked.

And the western press carried his picture in their cover all day,

People he wrote to, Persons he tried to lean on

That never gave him a listening ear.

They sent fact-finders to Ogoniland,

Which truth they seek to know his people don't know.

For his pen could still talk and there roads were there too narrow.

Give the tyrant an embargo their commonwealth resolved,

That he pay for their death.

And so did a nation get punished for a sin

The companies were equally guilty.

Today the feasting is still on and Saro will get a burial.

His fatherland still don't have schools

And the rivers continue to pollute,

Just like when the tyrant was in power.

And the West is looking the other way.

I ask them to say if Ken died for a reason,

Yes they answer, for the liberation of his people.

But in answer I say, In vain they died.

Robot  Villager

# 1 How shall a story of vanity be told?...Read the full article. Posted by Robot| 10.10.2007 03:37

Chief Kalu  Villager

# 2 =Robot;209176818>How shall a story of vanity be told?... My sister in obodo oyibo, you are too much! NVS has become home for us, the last bus stop! Yes! Chief would have passed the seven lannds and sea to catch you, if no hannd hold you, my dear sister. Walahi! I for marry you if you were single and searching. They never died in vain. At least we are now asking Alams to return his loot. We have freezed Ibori's account. We never asked questions before they died. They globe throtted with our funds while our children were left to die of hunger. My dear i hear you loud and clear. They did not die in vain. Goodluck our son is now vice pressident. Azazi is our son too. They can now hear our voice in Nigeria and they listen. We have a pain now. The good fight our good men fought has been taken over by criminals, to our undoing. Development projects are now stalled because the men that will work the work has been chased away. They now prefer to collect a ransom to spend on wine and women than seeing my people benefit from the oil proseeds. Maybe we should wake up those good men who died fighting to tell us again that the reason that they fought was not for their pockets but to liberate our people. And also tell our own sons- governors, to eat and leave some for the peoples benefits. My sister weldone. They did not die in vain! Chief Kalu Posted by Chief Kalu| 10.10.2007 05:46

okenikpoto  Villager

# 3 Hello Chief Kalu, I would like to let you know that I am not a lady as you referred me by but a full fledged man and again, I do not reside in Obodo Oyibo; yours truly is in Lagos with you oo, I am in the best country to be in the world and we no go shake jare. Long Live Naija. Posted by okenikpoto| 10.10.2007 08:15

Hamattan  Villager

# 4 =Robot;209176818>How shall a story of vanity be told?...Read the full article. Nice piece. But I think the following verse will complete the story Then came the hostilities Slaughtered in cold blood for no just cause many easterners beheaded for the sole reason of being from the east Our people ran home for safety declared independence But the caliphate said, over their dead body they carried out war against the east, but promised you goodies if only you sabotage the efforts of your brothers. you carried out their will, but what did you get the earnings from the properties abandoned by your brothers? They milked your farmland dry scotching your environment with endless burn fire Today the feasting is still on you still don't have schools and the rivers continue to pollute, Just like when the tyrant was in power for how long shall this go on under our collective watch let the mistakes of our past be our strength that we may unite to fight this monster for its power lies on our division Posted by Hamattan| 10.10.2007 10:40

denker  Villager

# 5 =okenikpoto;209176877>Hello C(T)hief Kalu, I would like to let you know that I am not a lady as you referred me by but a full fledged man.... my dear, Thief kalu, Analphabetism for dis village na big impediment, i recommend you go on sabbatical leave, use the period to upgrade your comprehension and reading abilities...abeg save us and yours highness further embarrassment...:D Posted by denker| 10.10.2007 10:50

Chief Kalu  Villager

# 6 =denker;209176930>my dear, Thief kalu, Analphabetism Denker you be my friend.At least for according me due recognition. no person tell me say ahaoma kanu na man name. my brother understand. He complimented me i am sure. na my brother for this naija. for you, you still dey blow over queens grammer. I pity your condition. This period no require plenty analphabetism but better action. Where you from sef. my brother dey cry of our papa property wey dem take, you dey here dey blow nonsence grammer. sorry! Denker my paddy paddy. I be titled mano! RESPECT YOUR ELDER AND YOUR DAYS SHALL BE LONG WITH SMALL SUFFER! Posted by Chief Kalu| 10.10.2007 12:04

Chief Kalu  Villager

# 7 =Hamattan;209176921>Nice piece. But I think the following verse will complete the story They milked your farmland dry scotching your environment with endless burn fire Today the feasting is still on you still don't have schools and the rivers continue to pollute, Just like when the tyrant was in power for how long shall this go on under our collective watch let the mistakes of our past be our strength that we may unite to fight this monster for its power lies on our division HARMATTAN MY BROTHER! You blow correct for here. Oyi uguru nwokeoma! i no fit interprete this ibo hailing for english. The meaning and significance go loss. When they carry their vocab enter our terrain, dem go adultrate am. Harmattan etter person- nobe people like DENKER THEM JO! The point is this, will our brothers hear. When they need something from the ibo man, ikwerre, opobo, some kalabari, bonny, they will speak igbo language and claim ibo ancestry. But when its time to team up and fight like brothers that we are, they will immediately remember that the ibo man too get sence and they will turn around tp persecute the ibo. please tell them-the power of the monster lies in our division indeed! Posted by Chief Kalu| 10.10.2007 12:30

Palamedes  Villager

# 8 How not to be a bad poet I love poetry that has soul and energy (energy is my justification for loving the music of Meatloaf); and I myself, I must say, have occasionally dabbled in compositions—particularly when I have had one or two of whatever I am having or when I am angry about something. Anyway, I am expected to get to the point and here it is: I look for prose and meter in a poem. Granted, I am afraid, this poem did not do anything for me, that is to say it does not inspire nor delight me; its meter (rhythmical arrangement of syllables or words into verses) is too contrived. Good Poem should melt in the mouth (like Stilton cheese) when read. Now, this is my invention, which I am prepared to share with fellow villagers: Now close your mouth and try to read this poem aloud; now listen to yourself as you do so; what do you hear? The importance of rhyming can never be underestimated; it is said that in the days of yore poets have been know to have died trying to get the perfect rhyme. It seems the author's idea of rhyming is using words in alphabetical similitude of adjacent lines instead of words that sound alike. Allow me to draw your attention to the the bold words in the following first verse: How shall a story of vanity be told? Who will be the hearers of this tragedy? The children who have a dark cloud, Or the mothers who cannot find river water to cook dinner. Would the fathers whose hairs have turned grey Tell this tale for which many have gone And joined their ancestors to the great beyond. My first encounter with William Wordsworth's definition of poetry, twenty years ago, have stuck in my mind to this day like a leech on a fresh wound and this is what he said (braze yourself): “poetry is the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: it takes its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity: the emotion is contemplated till, by a species of re-action, the tranquillity gradually disappears and an emotion, kindred to that which was before the subject of contemplation, is gradually produced, and does itself in the mind”. This quote gives me a fix of melody in the vein of my hears; the best poems are written when you are high on emotion, angry about something, or even pissed(!), which triggers a transcendent state; at this state the individual is rendered incapable of any form of articulation; the “recollected in tranquillity” is another state whence the individual attempts to assemble his thoughts to compose a true poem. Need I say more? What a genius he was. Take the first verse, a mere removal of the indefinite article “a” and definite article “the” gives it is a facelift beyond recognition(I exaggerate but it is beside the point): How shall story of vanity be told? Who will be hearers of this tragedy? Children who have dark cloud, Mothers who cannot find water to cook. Would fathers whose hairs have turned grey Tell this tale for which many have gone And joined their ancestors to great beyond. “Just one more thing” as Detective Columbo would say, a long poem is contrived, manufactured and lacks spontaneity, the ears ache, and mine feel no sympathy with such indulgence. Have a good day, sirs. Posted by Palamedes| 10.10.2007 15:04