Twilight In Biafra Poem by Uche Nwanze

Hurried heavy footsteps moving closer, the sky puffs out black smoke, pellets of fire flying like kites. The Earth coughs in tremor from the ogbunigwe.
Young lads take refuge on the skirts of their mothers for fear of being conscripted into the nzogbu nzogbu choir. Old ears glued to the rumblings of the transistor radio not of the colour of the sky but of their hero's victory songs. The enemies stronghold has fallen like a pack of cards. A different tale the morning after, as trees shed their leaves.
The nimble and senile swiftly take on borrowed legs, to the bush and caves for their refuge. The drumbeats of war have gone berserk in riotous chorus.
Mothers in search of their children, husbands desert their wives on their nuptial bed. Adaorie looks for Ikechukwu, day turn into night. Nowhere to be seen. Stolen from his mother, inconsolable.
Tears well up her eyes like raindrops, will she ever see the only child of her breast again.
Biafra, the beautiful bride of the Niger, now a desolate place.
Biafra, the Paradise on the Niger, now the theatre of hell.
Biafra, your innocence and aura of tranquillity stolen from you.

Footsteps approach, it is deafening, the earth shakes from the dull thud of steps. All raise the olive branch, as the territory has fallen.
Women and children kept at bay like seed from chaff. Before their inquisitive eyes, their sons and husbands cut down by the sword of their united guest. Who will keep the cold beds warm for the maidens, to whose shoulder will they cry to. Nnebisi weeps inconsolably, the evil done to her, her crime she knows not.

They leave trail of blood, tears and anguish. Their tomorrow stolen from them. Darkness and silence envelopes the air.
Biafra, the scars still fresh, our hearts still remember. The day Kwashiorkor visited bearing Greek gifts.
Biafra, forget we will not, our hearts bleeds from the wounds gave you to her. No victor no vanquished, a lie you told. Conquered and silenced she has become.

Biafra, where is the Rehabilitation you promised?
Where is the Reconciliation you offered?
Where is the Reconstruction you gifted her?
It was a farce.
Biafra, , she lives like a slave in her fatherland.
How she sang, O my home when shall I see my home. When shall I see my native land.

Biafra, not a country.
Biafra, will she rise from the ashes?
Will the sun smile on her face again?
Biafra, we will never forget.
Biafra, forever in our hearts.