To Achebe

Sir,
When they told me you died
I laughed
Because they got it wrong
You only stooped to rest
You were simply weary.

Of paper and pen
Of Biafran ghosts
Of Semi-literate Ogas at the top
Of chop-make-I-chop politricks
And lambasting tribal gulags.

I know you tried
And that’s why you are tired
From your Country-crier duties.

Voice croaking
Back bent
Head aching
Heart broken
You tired.

Sir,
If you help me see that Okigbo
That madman with the terrible prophecies
Black Nostradamus with iron will and bell
Tell him to come back
And tell the story
That there indeed was a country
Sold out
Again
And again.



4 thoughts on “To Achebe” by Hymar (@Hymar)

  1. Indeed he lives..My best lines—Of chop-make-I-chop politricks
    And lambasting tribal gulags.
    Well done,keep writing sir.

  2. @sambrightomo, a pleasure man, Thankee

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