The gods of our fathers, take a seat. Yes, I speak to you, protectors of the ancient landmarks, come here, take a seat and hear my case.
I hate to follow my senses at this time, but I think I believe them when they tell me you are all asleep. Or even dead! Protectors of the image of the African landscape, you are all in an eternal slumber. You have failed in your duties. You are so defenseless and say nothing of the things happening, or have you also been swept by the modern trend?
I know, I am mortal. But I challenge you immortal keepers of the trans-generational creed, rise up to your duty!
We no longer sit by the fires to hear grandpa’s folktales. The moon no longer sees opportunity to illuminate our attentive ears and intent faces. No, no longer do we sit before great-grandma, beside the hugging smell of the udara tree and under the glowing hue of the moon to hear her stories of ‘Mbe and Agu‘ slugging it out in a show of wisdom vs strength. What have you done, allowing our revered tradition slip away?
We no longer visit the streams. You must have heard that that thing they call blore hole – or is it borehole? – has now taken the place of our streams. No. How will you hear, when you are in deep slumber?
Even our food is now being desecrated. Do you know that our young boys and girls, our own children, now use fork to eat akpu. Fufu kwa? FORK TO EAT AKPU, gods, and you all are asleep. Chaaiii. Abomination! Ihe ojoo emeee.
Our virgins have gone haywire- that is if they still are what I call them. They now display the holy things you endowed them with in public places. I even hear it is because one Kim Kadasha, abi is it Kim Kadershi, or Kim whatever, did it. What of our nursing mothers? They now use bottle to feed our babies! BOTTLE! They say they don’t want their breasts to fall. Ancient ones, can you imagine such brazen foolishness? Ha si na, ha achoghi ka ara ha daa. gods, they say they don’t want it to fall, and you are still sleeping! Cheeii! My eyes have seen the back of my ears.
I hear you no longer accept cowries, that you now prefer laptops. I hear you no longer accept fowls and goats. You now demand Murano and Infiniti. You are now modern gods, lost in a world of shameless culture, endowed with brazen harlotry and disrespect.
Sleeping gods, I dare you to wake. I dare you to rise.
I also heard you don’t accept kolanuts anymore. Shawarma is now your love. And my heart bled when I was told our reverred ‘kai kai-‘ the great ‘akpuru achia-‘ has been substituted for champagne, moet and baileys.
Oh! Oh! Woe unto a people whose watchmen have gone stone dead in sleep. Woe unto the land that has sold itself cheap for a taste of western culture. Woe unto the people who dance their native dance to the sound of foreign beats. Woe! Woe!! Woe!!!
If you will not hear me and rise from your slumber, I will take my case to the seas, the Skies, the land and the heat- the keepers of the four elements of our survival- water, air, earth and fire. They will be the centre for the rapprochement of our history, our common existence and our progress as a culture; and will provide the cure for this cultural sickness called civilisation. Sleep On.
Ukpala, the great Osisi, has spoken.