Ode to Iva

by Adimchi Akuma

All memorable deaths are crescendos first before ends.

Guevara, in dying, formed a new religion.

Fela gave his songs a new tone in singing.

Okadigbo blew a horn in sitting.

And wrote a final poem,

a riddle

to the fearful edge of war beats

rendered as worship

to a metronome of gun sounds.

They knew a peace,

in what we perceived as loss,

Asleep in warmth, the devil didn’t disturb,

because… well, he just couldn’t.

_Even death bows in reverie_

_to wills that bend only to right_

This is a poem for men who sit on clouds,

waving flags knitted into portraits of their faces,

By other men who will forever tag them, gods.

Swords that wars exalted,

but could never break.

Youth never ages in these clouds.

And old age is taught to retrace his steps.

There is grace in death,

when it transcends the vices that gave it breath.

In remembrance, we write odes to twenty-one deaths.

And a bit above 50 injured cities, exhibiting inscriptions

on how the British brought more than just English.

But this poem cannot bear scorn,

there’s no hatred in these clouds.

And whenever we raise a song to sing our

history with these mouths,

Iva valley will raise a flag,

and a mine will spit up black

too dark to be gold,

but the shiniest of stars,

and these clouds, we speak of,

these clouds will share a dance.

And maybe…

maybe there’ll be rain,

drops from the fountain of youth,

on the same plain as these clouds.

Splatters,

Tap tap,

Morse code.

Spelling out the same words

we exalt in this house.

A one-line poem all our poems render.

An offering to these men, simply saying, we remember.

We remember,

And as long as we do, these hearts will rage.

These flags will wave, and this art will wail

odes to memorable deaths.

To upsurge, an intro at first.

A crescendo at best.

Till the sky

And the earth

write their final poem.

#Echefula